


A Mortal Among Us

by YustinaMishka



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Domestic, Fuck Or Die, Hades Geralt, Horror Elements, Human Sacrifice, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Kid Fic, M/M, Mutual Pining, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Power Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Scent Kink, Sort of Persephone Jaskier, Sort of? - Freeform, Strangers to Lovers, Supportive Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, no beta we die like witchers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23381287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YustinaMishka/pseuds/YustinaMishka
Summary: Geralt has been called many things in his long lifetime and most of which are meant as insults or a way to describe how horrid he was. The most popular moniker nowadays seems to be ‘Hades’ or ‘Witcher’.He is the god of death and supposedly had no interest in human affairs.Everything changed when a man named Jaskier is sacrificed to Geralt in order for the Lord of Redania to achieve his wish for glory and power. Needless to say, everything came tumbling to its right place after that.[aka. In which the god of death (Geralt) unwillingly receives a sacrifice (Jaskier) and doesn't know what to do with a mortal bard...so he falls in love with him.]
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 225
Kudos: 810





	1. Ode to the Wolf

Geralt has been called many things in his long lifetime and most of which are meant as insults or a way to describe how horrid he was. The most popular moniker nowadays seems to be ‘Hades’ or ‘Witcher’. Though, honestly, witcher was not exclusive for him. Lambert and Eskel were also called witchers, to their extreme delight, and so were the other soldiers of the Underworld. Being a deity of death, Geralt could hardly blame the humans for trying to simplify his and his people’s existence into a word.

Unfortunately, the rise of witcher talk meant rowdier dinner halls and training fields filled with dangerous bets on who could be the scariest witcher to make a whole town piss themselves. Given any other day, it would have been normal for these creatures of the dark to be pricks at one another, but now they’re truly being a nuisance.

With a sigh, Geralt left his dreary domain just by the mouth of a dark river. The world of the living was bright and stings at Geralt’s eyes but the god pushed on, ready to be rid of the banter he doesn’t care for at the moment.

“Do you usually charm your worshippers this way?” greeted a soft voice. The woman who it belonged to wore a particularly mischevious painted smirk, dark robes falling over soft curves which was borderline scandalous for a priestess.

“Yennefer,” Geralt smiled before making his way through the dark marbled floor to embrace the laughing priestess. This temple was specifically built in ‘Hades’’ honor or rather to avoid angering the god from being ignored. Honestly, Geralt doesn’t care. Though, the free meat, fruits, and wine are welcome.

The temple is made out of pure white marble, stretching up to an impressive thirty feet off the elevated ground. The steps leading to the temple had large ebony fire bowls sitting by its feet and the entrance to the inside of the structure. Pillars that reached the ceiling had draperies of rich colors, and torches made out of silver and gold. Thankfully, in Geralt’s relief, the offering table was quite modest with only the symbol of a snarling wolf’s head carved into it. There were fresh grapes, barley, and stuffed meat on the table. It barely compares to the sacrifices to the other gods. It seems that people are getting more scared to actually step foot in what was the physical representation of Geralt’s domain on land.

Yennefer seemed to notice Geralt’s mood, the long frown and the stiff shoulders giving it away. With that in mind, the dark haired priestess led her lord to a much secluded place to drink wine or ale and fill their bellies with warm meat. Her relationship with Geralt was complicated, what with them having joined together in bed for a few years, but now she knows her standing. She’s Geralt’s friend and Yennefer will do her best to keep the god content.

Fortunately, the priestess’ technique worked effortlessly. There were not faithfuls who dared pray today and the whole temple was available for their laughter to ring high. Yennefer kept talking about humans like she wasn’t partly one of the species herself. It makes Geralt’s eyes crinkle.

“Oh, there was this lord the other day,” Yennefer started conspitorily, “Bald, fat fellow. I feel for his poor wife. His attitude was worse off than a pig, if I do say so myself.”

“Really?” Geralt raised an amused brow, sipping his ale as he watched Yennefer lean closer to gossip some more.

“Awful fool! He was running his mouth about winning miles worth of farmlands for himself,” Yennefer snorted and crossed her legs, “Of course, he probably realized he is wanting in physical force. His soldiers can only do so much. The bastard even dared say he’d give you the most glorious living sacrifice, if only to assure the death of his enemies.”

Geralt winced, “I’ve no business with human affairs.”

The priestess laughed merrily, “I told him that but he was awfully bullheaded and insisted he’d come here with his ‘glorious gift’ anyway. I wanted to kick him off the stairs but I wouldn’t want to hurt your... _peculiar_ image.” The last bit was said with a wide grin. Geralt made a face at her, lacking bravery to actually hit her forehead with a grape.

“I want nothing,” Geralt hummed, averting his eyes from the fires licking the burnt wood of their bonfire. He really did not want to have to deal with humanity and their trifle charades. The god was fine being alone in his domain, occasionally commanding his ‘witchers’ to walk across the earth if the need for balance arises. Whatever this living sacrifice was, Geralt was not interested in taking it; especially if it’s human.

“Maybe if I make him lose his hair,” Yennefer laughed as Geralt spat his drink, “Maybe he’d just go away.”

The night went on with their light spirited conversation. Eventually, the moon rose to its peak with stars glittering by its sides. Sounds of cicadas and crickets hum through the summer air. Yennefer bid her lord a goodnight, kissing his cheek and teasing him about the coming of his living sacrifice. Geralt shook his head, though unable to erase from his mind the date of the full moon.

Geralt doesn’t need anything.

* * *

Travellers and devotees come and go into Geralt’s temple. Yennefer watches them with a barely interested look before she glides her way to the gardens, black flowy robes following her descent. It was a typical day, though the foot traffic is noticably higher compared to earlier weeks. The same prayers were uttered, much to Yennefer’s boredom. It’s always a wish for the death of some poor sod or maybe a cry for help from the monster of the week. Yennefer was about to retire in her room when the darkened sky started drizzling, accompanying the figure of a man clothed in a damp cloak.

_Oh._

The man was a regular. He was one of Geralt’s cheerful givers, always armed with either a bag filled with coin or bundles of wild flowers picked from a foreign meadow. Typically, he’d have a lute strung to his back and sometimes he’d even sing a little song in honor of the god who owns the temple.

Tonight, he was armed with lilies and cyclamens. He was also missing his lute.

Yennefer furrowed her brow at the meaning of the flowers. Usually this man would bring bright daffodils, poppies, violets, and buttercups. They were symbols of happiness, childishness, and innocence. Lilies and cyclamens meant sorrow and resignation. That’s not right.

Slowly, the man’s shaking form approached the altar. He suspiciously made a gasping noise before falling to his knees and gripping the ledge of the altar with his right hand. The bouquet was gently placed on the dark floor, now wet with the stray raindrops that slid from his cloak. Yennefer had enough of watching and took long strides until she was kneeling right beside him.

Gently, Yennefer removed the hood of his cloak, revealing the blotchy face of a young bard with his sorrowful cornblue eyes wet with tears.

“Oh, Jaskier.” Yennefer embraced him tightly which was returned in kind.

Jaskier was first introduced to Yennefer as Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. The boy was about the age of eight, wrapped up in silk of bright colors. He was the youngest to have ever set foot in a scary place like Geralt’s temple. Surprisingly, it had been the boy’s choice. The babbling child kept yapping about pretty wolves which saved him from bad men. When his mother told him the tale of Death, the White Wolf of the North, Jaskier had been insistent that it was the same wolf he had met before. Thus, explaining how a noble had practically grown up within these marbled halls.

Yennefer had been pleased to co-parent a naughty child, though their relationship became a little strained once Julian had turned into strong headed Jaskier, Bard of Redania and Master of the Seven Liberal Arts. They clashed as both had strong wills and most of the time had the same type in men and women. The competition between them dwindled into sibling rivalry. Needless to say, Yennefer cared for Jaskier deeply.

“What’s wrong, flower?” Yennefer crooned as she swiped away wet strands of hair from Jaskier’s forehead.

The bard sniffled pathetically, “Oh, you know. Family matters.”

Yennefer wrinkled her nose. Jaskier became _Jaskier_ because his family had been unsupportive of him and questioned most of choices in life. When his father died, everything went to hell with Jaskier’s adoptive family.

“Do I need to curse someone?”

Jaskier laughed emptily, “No. I believe this is a fate I cannot escape, dear sorceress.”

“You underestimate my capabilities, little flower.”

Jaskier playfully rolled his eyes, smiling sadly at what was his mother and sister figure, “Destiny awaits.”

Knowing that the brunet would not budge, Yennefer urged Jaskier to stand and remove his cloak in exchange for drier and cleaner robes. Though the bard’s choices in fashion required bright silk and laces, he grinned at the prospect of wearing something traditional and loose.

Once Jaskier was finished with dressing, the drizzle from earlier had turned into pouring rain. The dark clouds rumbled with displeasure as streaks of lightning and claps of thunder roared through the lands. Yennefer groaned. She had just cleaned the temples steps and now she has to do it all over again.

“Tell me, dearest Yennefer,” Jaskier prompted, obviously in a better mood now that he is in dry clothes. “Have you not any suitors laying about in your closed quarters? Because quite honestly, I’ve not the slightest intention of hearing lyrical moans which does not belong to me.”

The priestess flicked Jaskier on the forehead like he was twelve.

“I jest!” Jaskier flailed pathetically away.

“You better,” Yennefer all but growled playfully. “Songbirds ought to know not to distress its predators, especially when brooding in their den.”

Jaskier laughed bitterly, “It’s not as if death is not a pleasant choice, given the circumstances. Perhaps, I could even meet my muse and he’d be charming my breeches away.”

“Geralt does have a habit of doing that,” Yennefer hummed thoughtfully while Jaskier absent-mindedly nodded. Wait.

“Wait—what?” Jaskier stared disbelievingly, “Geralt who?”

Yennefer grinned, “Tell me what troubles you, bard, and I shall sent forth the god of death himself to end your sorrows. It’d be fun to watch too. It’s awfully boring out here.”

“As if!” Jaskier scoffed. “You know that gods don’t actually descend down and break mortals into two like some stale bread. Furthermore, I was asking about your ‘Geralt’ and I’d appreciate an answer before I expire.”

“I just answered you.”

Jaskier blinked.

And blinked again.

“The god of death?” Jaskier asked plainly, tilting his head down.

“Yes.”

“God of death who owns this actual place?”

“Uhuh.”

“What the fu— Gods have mortal names!?” Jaskier squawked, “And his name is fucking _Geralt_ of all things?”

Yennefer tried to bite back a laugh, “Show a little respect, you oaf. This is his temple after all. Imagine someone making fun of you literally being called ‘Buttercup’ or ‘Dandelion’ in your own house.”

“Oh, well, I guess you haven’t had the pleasure of dining with my family.”

The expression on Yennefer’s face darkened as sparks of violet flames flared from nearby torches and lamps. Jaskier looked around like a frightened lamb before reassuring the priestess.

“Gods, Yen!” Jaskier cried in a hysterical laugh. “It’s a dark family joke! I don’t actually care. I actually find it very funny.”

Yennefer, fortunately, calmed until her violet eyes brightened into its normal state. The priestess pursed her lips as she crossed her arms, obviously still displeased with how awful Jaskier’s family was. Truthfully, the bard was thankful to have someone so powerful and frightfully beautiful to be right by his side no matter what.

It was a cold night with an even colder family. He much preferred the company of this woman than those of his own blood. They had ruined his future by throwing him away. Jaskier wanted to tell Yennefer what it was; that he is to be the living tribute to be sacrificed to the god of death, Geralt. However, he thinks a bloodbath all over Redania is not worth the risk.

Jaskier quietly sobs under the protection of Geralt’s temple.

The skies mourn with him.

* * *

Bald, fat lord actually went on with his plan of a grand procession. Yennefer was displeased and wanted to set everything on fire but her job as a priestess was merely to regulate the temple and spread word about her lord. Committing arson and multiple murders were definitely off the list especially in peaceful times.

The drums and trumpets were loud and obnoxious as their lord. Dancers and singers scantly dressed in gold and sparkling jewelry paraded across the street of Redania. People ranging from local farmers to high lords went out of their houses to watch the show. They were all unaware of the white wolf patietly watching over the procession.

Geralt, no matter how many times he yelled at himself that he wasn’t interested, was actually very curious and a little bored. The underworld had no pressing matter as of the moment. His witchers were competent enough to wrangle monsters and stray souls that wanted to escape. Naturally, this led to Geralt transforming into his old wolf form. This had been his choice of disguise since the olden days; hence, gaining him the moniker of the White Wolf.

The procession was getting louder and Geralt observed that Yennefer’s expression remained pinched and tired. The wolf let out a chortle at the priestess before a familiar scent of distress reached his nose. Geralt lifted himself on his paws, sniffing the startled and sorrowful gooseberry scent coming from Yennefer. The White Wolf scratched at the ground agitatedly, looking for the source of her despair.

Yennefer stood stock still, mouth agape as she stared at the familiar insignia of the Pankratz family. Geralt made an inquiring noise though he knew he was too far to be heard. Just when the wolf decided to crawl over to the temple behind the tall trees and bushes, a particularly loud horn echoed through the streets, announcing the arrival of the sacrifice.

The palanquin was solid gold with white translucent draperies separating the form of a young man from the crowd. Geralt sniffed and walked closer, only to see the saddened face of a familiar bard. Panic, a foreign feeling long burned out of Geralt’s heart, clawed its way into the god of death. He knew this man, though regretfully not by name. During the few times he set foot on his temple, he always saw this beautiful bard singing delightful songs in Geralt’s honor.

With a snarl, Geralt raced from where he was hidden and trapezed through thorned bushes and uneven ground until his paws finally hit the cobblestone streets. The god of death remained hidden under the shadows, skillfully avoiding the humans, before making his way near Yennefer.

_‘Yennefer’_

The priestess jolted, hearing her lord in her mind before turning to see a white wolf crouched behind a huge pilar.

_‘That bard. I know him.’_

There were unshed tears in Yennefer’s eyes, “I know him too.”

Geralt stared at the woman with his yellow eyes, knowing that those tears meant that the boy was special to her.

_‘I will not take him.’_

“You must!” Yennefer hissed. “If you refuse him, that boy will die on the sacrificial table.”

Geralt’s eyes widened as he stepped back. _‘Can his family not take him away from here?’_

“Oh, my dear Geralt,” Yennefer cried openly as tears streaked her face and fell in drops unto her black and gold robes. “That is his family.”

The wolf snarled, anger shaking him until his fur stood up. How dare these humans abandon their family like this? And for what? Fame, power, and pieces of dirt? Geralt is truly sickened.

He must end this but he cannot refuse the poor bard either.

Fuck.

* * *

Yennefer stood in front of the altar, a few feet away from where the palanquin was placed. Her expression was stony, bitter rage and indignation simmering beneath her skin like a wildfire. Jaskier was still meekly seated inside, head bowed and discreetly trying to wipe away stray tears. The bastard who dared called himself Jaskier’s father, albeit a step-father, rose to the top of the stairs and urged the cheering people on. He was sweaty in his silk coat and a little too pleased with himself.

Geralt barely bit back a growl as the pot-bellied man walked further into his temple. Yennefer bowed as per protocol but there was an air of defiance around her. The god of death felt proud of the priestess.

Yennefer welcomed the party through gritted teeth and recited the words meant to address Geralt. She was calling for him, asking for his graciousness to ascend from the Underworld and collect the sacrifice of his people. The entire time, Jaskier was shaking and gripping the cushioned seats of the palanquin. The onlookers watched as the fires raged high and the sky was painted black like ink.

A loud growl echoed, before Geralt decided to step away from the shadows and reveal his hulking wolf form. Jaskier, along with the entourage and gossipmongers, gaped openly at the obviously displeased wolf. Yennefer was on her knees, body bent backwards as her arms were raised high and wide.

**_Hap burzum. Lay tezna ve men agh loga naj-ri'uk son.  
Open Darkness. Lay waste to men and free his son._ **

_  
_ Geralt’s wolf form sniffed at the palanquin before walking away in what seemed like disinterest. The fires surrounding the temple turned a shade of violet as Yennefer’s voice grew higher— then she collapsed, all fires now a cold blue.

The lord was trembling in his boots as the sounds of banshee screams started howling through the wind. The white wolf snarled, baring its deadly teeth, in an effort to separate the man from the palanquin. The lord raised his hands in a show of surrender when at last the wolf began to transform.

Yennefer laughed in two voices.

“Oh bloody hell,” Jaskier muttered to himself from where he was twisted to watch the white wolf turn into a tall, muscular man with similar white hair. The newcomer, no doubt the god of death himself, wore plates of black leather armor with two swords glinting behind his back. Blue flames licked his feet and the floor that touches it. The god was a true definition of the end of times.

 **“You seem to be eager to meet your death** ,” Geralt growled in a low voice that undoubtedly sounded animalistic and ethereal.

The lord fell to his knees and begged Geralt to take his son as a sacrifice, to free the people from hunger and add glory to the land of Redania. The god of death snarled in distaste, pulling his silver sword from his back, the one meant for monsters.

“I’ve never heard of a father willing to throw his son away in a manner most heinous,” Geralt hissed as he pressed the blade to the man’s throat, drawing crimson blood.

“Please,” the man babbled pleadingly, “Julian will serve you well. He is a master in arts and has a reputation in the arts of pleasure. His lord would be most pleased.”

Jaskier let out a disbelieving breath, the telltale rattles of chains clinking as he shifted away from what sounded like his step-father whoring him to the White Wolf.

The god of death seems to share the same sentiment and kicked the noble backward. Yennefer stood from where she was seated, pulling on the curtains of the palanquin and revealing his supposed prize. The boy, barely past of age, was dressed in sky blue with yellow laces. He stared at Geralt with wide cornflower blue eyes, pink lips parted as he took in the sight of a god before him. Strangely, only the old scent of prior fear clung to the bard. Otherwise, he smelled at awe and intrigued.

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed which was replied with Yennefer’s knowing smirk.

Geralt turned back to the greedy lord, pointing his sword at him and declaring the man as a poor example of a mortal. The people of Redania cowered while others cried out and begged for mercy for having committed such an offense. Jaskier started to smell alarmed and scared as well.

If the bard was rejected, it would be Jaskier’s fault and his family would disown or kill him. The people of Redania might even kick him out for being an unacceptable sacrifice.

“My lord—“ Jaskier began to plead when Yennefer caught his arm and gestured for him to wait.

“What is your name, human?” Geralt asked with his head tilted towards Jaskier’s direction. Oh by the gods he looks so sinful.

Jaskier gulped, “I am Julian Alfred Pankratz but I am known to be Jaskier.”

The god returned his sight on the lord then the general public which is awaiting his desicion.

 **“Jaskier is _mine_ ,”** Geralt declared firmly. **“He will no longer be part of the Pankratz family. The boy shall be my own. Anyone who dares lay a hand on him shall answer to my blade.”**

Everyone gasped in both fear and relief as they dropped flat on the floor to bow at the god, all giving thanks for his mercy.

“T-Then,” the bald lord stuttered, “Does that mean our wish will be granted?”

Geralt growled; the sound of banshees and wailing monsters heightened, as he picked up the man by the collar and raised him from the floor. **“You shall receive the gift of many deaths as deserved. Go and conquer foreign soil if you must. Your deeds shall bring you your wish.”**

The lord nodded and thanked the god for his gift, obviously misunderstanding Geralt’s answer. Jaskier blinked as everything happened so fast. He didn’t know what was going to happen to him. The White Wolf looked angry.

When Jaskier’s step-father waddled away with his entourage down the steps, Yennefer snorted at the god casually for the extensive display. “That was a little showy, wasn’t it Geralt?”

The god, Geralt, closed his eyes indulgingly and hummed in resignation. Jaskier wanted to say something at the easy flow of conversation between them, but he was a little too strung up and is currently about to faint from all the events.

“I-I think I need a nap,” Jaskier sighed before collapsing in an inelegant heap. Geralt quickly kneeled and caught the bard in his arms, still chained in gold and wrapped in silk.

“Congratulations,” Yennefer smiled with a tinge of gratefulness in her eyes. “You have earned yourself a bard.

Geralt growled, “Fuck.”


	2. Little Lark

Jaskier was surprised to see that he did not wake up in some strange land, seven levels deep within the Underworld. What greeted him were a curtain of soft morning light and the faint smell of dust on unused sheets. He was familiar with this room, though his memory was tainted with the dizzying influence of wine. These quarters belonged to the priests and priestesses of Geralt’s temple, albeit currently vacant since no other man or woman was strong enough to withstand their fear of Geralt; except Yennefer.

The bard rolled around the bed with a groan escaping his lips. His back hurt and the burn from his earlier chained wrists and ankles made him flinch. Damn his stupid step-father. Was it not enough that Jaskier was being sacrificed to a god? Did the man really have to chain him like some common beast? The nerve.

“I’d put him on a spit when I get the chance,” Jaskier grumbled as he rubbed the sleep off his eyes.

It took a few moments before Jaskier had enough sense to recognize the covered loaf of bread and glass of water by his bedside table. His stomach grumbled at the mere prospect of food. Jaskier had been too overwhelmed with fear at his impending doom yesterday that he forgotten to feed himself. Thankfully, the warm honeyed bread was gentle to his stomach. The bard almost finished the whole loaf, fingers sticky with butter and honey, when someone knocked at the door.

“I see you’ve finally gained consciousness,” Yennefer drawled.

Jaskier made a humming noise before continuing to attack his food. Normally, he had better manners than to ignore his host. Yennefer didn’t seem to mind the lack of words and simply walked inside the room without invitation.

“Don’t tell me,” Jaskier muttered with cheeks full of bread, “Did your god just reject me at the last minute or is this my new prison now?”

The priestess wrinkled her nose, “Don’t be stupid, Jaskier. It doesn’t suit you. Geralt knows the consequences of rejecting a sacrifice. He simply— well, he’s preparing your place at the Underworld and specifically instructed that you bring whatever valuables you have with you.”

Jaskier was momentarily surprised. The actual White Wolf of the North, God of Death and King of the Witchers, was actually considerate enough to prepare for Jaskier’s arrival and request that he bring mortal items that are of value to him. If anything, Jaskier expected to be dragged back, unconscious and probably drooling, into the Underworld and— well, do whatever it is that sacrifices do.

“That’s— very generous.” Jaskier stated unsurely.

The priestess smirked before patting his cheek. The weather is favorable today, prompting double the mass of traders and vendors in the market to gather around for sale and trade. Yennefer already hired some people to gather whatever Jaskier had left in his family home. Jaskier was grateful, since he already knew he’s not welcome to come back, nor is he willing to see the acursed house again. That only left him with one errand and that is going shopping with Yennefer before he is escorted to the Underworld when night comes.

“Is this really necessary?” Jaskier asked even if he’s excitedly slinging a bag on his shoulder. “I mean, I have no coin as of the moment and I cannot afford to be in debt when I’m literally never going back, probably.”

Yennefer sighed tiredly as she strapped her sandals in, “Must you always be so dramatic in the mornings? Stop thinking about coin when Geralt is oozing with gold. He could probably buy this kingdom for you if he wanted.”

The bard blushed a brilliant scarlet, “Oh. I suppose it’s rather silly of me to forget that he is an actual god who is not wanting in material things. Though, I’m surprised he’s wasting coin for me at all.”

Yennefer laughed indulgently, slinging her own bag, and heading for the door, “Don’t think much of it, flower. Think of it as his payment for all the songs you sang for him.”

Wait.

“Wait!” Jaskier yelled after the dark haired priestess who was walking too fast, “Wait! What do you mean— he heard me!? Oh gods, Yennefer of Vengerberg! Come back here!”

* * *

The marketplace was bursting to the seams with recently imported fabric, boxes of glittering jewelry, and crates of fresh produce from local and foreign farmlands. Hens clucked irritably as they were transferred from one stall to another. Horses neighed obediently while pulling heavy loads of cart with hay and other forest goods. The air smelled of the sun and maybe a little bit of sweat and shit.

Jaskier was going to miss this place, even if he got beaten up or stolen from in this place several times.

Yennefer remained quiet, her steady presence forcing the thick crowd to part ways. Thankfully, the townspeople were too scared to give them extra attention, what with Yennefer’s piercing violet eyes glaring daggers at every soul. No one needed to utter a word about Jaskier. The townspeople are all of equal confusion as to why the bard was still there.

“Maybe this is a terrible idea,” Jaskier mumbled under his breath, tugging uncomfortably at the collar of his doublet. It’s new for him to be uncomfortable in such a public place. Normally, he’d be pleased by the attention though now it feels like he’s suffocating.

Yennefer didn’t even acknowledge the atmosphere, gracefully skipping over tables and stalls to grab thick cloaks, gloves, and knitted scarves. Jaskier kept protesting at the colors, all bland and muted.

“You won’t be pleased to walk around the Underworld wearing flashy colors, bard.” Yennefer responded as she eyed a soft baby blue scarf that hopefully would appease Jaskier. “Souls of the dead would be attracted to bright colors. If not, then it’s the monsters like rotfiends and ghouls who will be after your arse.”

Jaskier, as always, was left with more questions than answers. He poked and prodded at the priestess who was now scouring the food stalls like a mad sorceress with a mission. She picked apples, pears, dried meat, and spices. When Yennefer began looking for raw ingredients to make bread, Jaskier immediately stopped her.

“I cannot bake for the life of me,” Jaskier complained in a high whine. Honestly, he can cook decently when pressed, but baking is a whole other universe that he cannot comprehend. Why was she doing this anyway? Was there no food in the White Wolf’s realm?

“Well, you will need to learn or you’ll go hungry.” Yennefer replied before bagging the ingredients and haggling quite brutally. The stall owner had no chance. The priestess knew too much about prices to be fooled.

“Why is that?” Jaskier asked with a doubtful scowl, “Are there no food in the Underworld? And why do you know so much about the place?”

An apple was thrown at his face. Jaskier screamed like a girl.

“I thought you’ve graduated from Oxenfurt. Do they teach you nothing but how to flirt into women’s skirts?” Yennefer rolled her eyes. “A mortal cannot eat food from the Underworld, lest he becomes bound to the land and never be able to return to the living.”

The bard blinked rapidly, eyes falling to the thrown apple craddle in between his hands. He remembered the story. Actually, he first heard it from his mother, warning him that if he meets someone from the Underworld, he should never take any food offered to him. One bite is all it takes to bind a human soul.

The rehash of the warning is sweet but—

“Am I not supposed to be in the Underworld forever?”

Yennefer stilled before smoothing down her expression into nothingness. They walked through the crowd again, eerie silence hanging between them like a corpse on a noose. People seemed to feel the change in the atmosphere and let the priestess through even without a word. When all the essentials were packed and ready to go, the two figures walked back to Geralt’s temple.

Yennefer sighed.

“The White Wolf will not enslave you, Jaskier.”

The bard, though overflowing with relief, furrowed his brows. “Then what purpose shall I serve there?”

“I am not privy to everything that’s going on in Geralt’s head,” Yennefer shrugged. “Though, I know it’s not in his nature to abuse the helpless innocent. A sacrificial lamb like yourself will be protected by him, as is sworn. Geralt will think of a function for you but it’s not as savage as you think.”

“You seem so certain of him,” Jaskier commented in a soft tone.

The priestess grinned, “Well, we were once very close.”

Jaskier blinked, interpreting the statement to be alluding to their god-priestess relationship. Honestly, Yennefer’s teasing tone probably meant something else but Jaskier was too tired to analyze. He’d hesitantly trust the word of the priestess. After all, she is the most knowledgeable about the god himself. Jaskier’s gut instincts are also telling him that the White Wolf would not harm him, but then his instincts aren’t exactly on point every time.

Soon, nightfall came and Jaskier was standing nervously by the foot of the temple. He was dressed in a dark blue doublet with red and yellow trimmings. Yennefer hissed at him for wearing strong colors but Jaskier remained determined that he would at least like to have his last chance of freedom of choice to be expressed in this manner. Yennefer relented, only after hitting the back of his head.

Jaskier’s laughter was silenced when the calm winds started to howl hauntingly, sweeping dried leaves off the floor up until it reached the ceiling of the temple. The bard shivered though he tried to remain still as the swirling black smoke seeping through the ground formed a shape of a horse and its master.

“Oh gods,” Jaskier muttered in awe. The horse looked like it was made out of pure black gravel and sand though its eyes were set ablaze into a deep orange. It was what the scholars fondly called a ‘Night-mare’ because apparently even the academe cannot be stopped from making puns. Riding the steed was Geralt himself, wrapped in a dark cloak with golden trimmings. He still looked unfairly hot and maybe Jaskier was having a little whiplash at the mixture of apprehension and arousal.

“You’re early,” Yennefer teased, hands placed on her hips like she owned the place.

Geralt only made a grunt of ‘no’ before he was walking towards the bard. Jaskier at least expected to be commanded to drag himself down the steps, or perhaps thrown into a steel carriage and be hauled away by drooling beasts. Instead, the god assessed him patiently with a couple of sniffs before scowling.

“I took a bath,” Jaskier squawked while Yennefer suspiciously sounded like she choked on her own laughter.

“Good for you,” Geralt responded with a raised eyebrow. He circled Jaskier again before he made one last exasperated noise and stripped himself of his cloak. Jaskier felt his mind slowly melt when the White Wolf covered him in his own cloak, Geralt’s body warmth still clinging to the fabric.

“Did you not buy him any— _suitable_ clothes?” Geralt asked Yennefer, his hands still pressed against Jaskier’s chest. The bard prayed hard that the White Wolf won’t be able to hear the fast beating of his heart.

Yennefer smirked, “He wished to be given a chance to enact one last act of defiance.”

Geralt’s tough expression softened a bit. There was a bit of an animal noise he made at the back of his throat. Jaskier was entirely transfixed before he was whisked away, Geralts large hand clamped on his delicate wrist.

“Wait!” Jaskier stuttered as he clumsily tried to keep his pace walking down the stairs. “But my belonggings—“

“It will be taken care of,” Geralt responded before lifting Jaskier off the ground and putting him on top of the displeased mare. The bard felt a scream trapped in his throat but he kept it at bay, fearing that he’d make the horse angry with him. Finally, the White Wolf lifted himself up, situating his large built right behind Jaskier. Fuck, the bard can feel _everything_ pressed against him.

“Let’s go, Roach.” Geralt prodded at the horse before it reared and bolted to the opposite direction of the temple. Jaskier may or may not have let out a scream when the mare jumped high before diving head first into the ground.

Black smoke, the smell of which was a mixture of dying embers and ashes, opened and devoured the newcomers. Jaskier’s limbs felt the creeping of the freezing wind, nipping at his skin like harsh snow. Geralt noticed the bard’s shivering and braced Jaskier, keeping him close to feel the White Wolf’s warmth and to keep him from falling off the portal. The trip into the Underworld was quick, and soon the crawling waters of a great river greeted them.

The Underworld was not as dark as people have portrayed them in lore. Instead, the lighting was different, softer and a little more gray than usual. High mountains enclosed the entire domain, its peaks touched by dark gray clouds which sometimes grumbled like a storm was coming. Trees here lacked leaves, or if they did, they were covered in soot or burned black. From high above, Jaskier could see a large fortress, seven towers standing proudly atop a mountain surrounded by a smaller branch of the river.

All in all, it was breathtaking.

In no time, Roach was preparing them to land. Jaskier held tightly unto the saddle as the ground grew closer, bringing with it the scent of dried grass and flowers which suspiciously smelled like sulfur or burning coal. It was a horrible combination that made the bard gag a bit.

“Does it always smell like this?” Jaskier found himself saying as he buried his nose deeper into Geralt’s cloak. The White Wolf’s clean scent made the awful stench become a little more tolerable.

“Hmm.” Geralt hummed. “You’ll get used to it. Though, to be fair, they’re seasonal flowers.”

They finally landed in a soft thump, Roach stomping on the ground in agitation at a new rider. Geralt dismounted with Jaskier before cooing at his horse, softly smoothing her gravelly muzzle.

Jaskier tilted his head, observing the scene. Geralt looked so terrifying and imposing that it’s such a contrast to how he is currently treating his horse. It was charming and reassuring to see that the god who was in charge of him might not exactly be as uncaring as he liked to carry himself out to be. Still, the bard felt like he still had to be careful. Gods were known for their tempers.

Inside the fortress, the gatekeepers yelled out a command in foreign tongue. The huge steel gates were opened for them, exposing the overwhelming true size of Geralt’s home. The outside walls of the fortress itself crawled up and across the mountain in a mix of huge stones and a net of old magic. The inside had several separate buildings, each bearing flags of a snarling wolf’s head. There were many people and creatures roaming around, all stopping to bow once Geralt and Jaskier passes by them.

“Welcome to Kaer Morhen,” Geralt huffed before giving Roach’s reigns to a stable boy who had elf ears.

Jaskier, for the first time in his life, felt speechless as he took in the sight. It was imposing, surely, but it also made him curious and excited. Kaer Morhen looked well-aged and had a distinct personality like its owner. There were witchers of all shapes and sizes, all taller than Jaskier, who were clad in similar leather plate armor. One of the witchers momentarily stopped before he grinned and casually called Geralt a son of a bitch, before hugging the White Wolf.

“I see you’ve brought your new plaything, Geralt,” the new witcher said in a sly tone.

Geralt rolled his eyes and shoved the witcher’s arm still slung around him, “Fuck off, Lambert.”

Lambert laughed loudly before welcoming the bard with a traditional salute to the chest. Jaskier blinked, a little confused if he should repeat the action. He did, of course, since he did not want to offend the witcher. It only made Lambert laughed harder.

“Don’t mind him,” another witcher called out from behind Jaskier. “He’s this family’s asshole. Lacked attention when he was a babe.”

Lambert wrinkled his nose, “Let a man have his fun, Eskel.”

Before Eskel could retort, a playful squeal rang through the grounds. Immediately, Geralt’s sour expression dropped and was replaced by a fond look when a tiny little girl came running towards him. Jaskier side-stepped, allowing the toddler to waddle away and climb on the White Wolf’s leg.

“I missed you, father!” the little girl happily announced with a huge grin. Her front tooth was missing; skin a little sickly pale, and her hair a color of blonde that almost looked white. She looked like she was about five years old. Jaskier obviously didn’t miss the word ‘father’. He didn’t know why he felt a little disappointed.

Geralt picked up his child, slinging her by his side so that she sat on her father’s arm. She was swinging her feet back and forth, obviously happy about her father’s return. Suddenly, her attention was brought to the newcomer. The little girl tilted her head like a puppy before smiling rather shyly, “Hello.”

“Hello, princess.” Jaskier replied, which apparently was the right thing to say as the girl brightened considerably.

“My name is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon!” the girl proudly stated in a mouthful. Ciri had to catch her breath in the middle of it, which made her ten times cuter.

Jaskier bowed as he was properly taught to do in court, “And I am Julian Alfred Pankratz but the princess may address me as Jaskier.”

Ciri made an awed face before swinging her feet rapidly, “Oh! Oh! Put me down, father! I want to do a fancy bow too!”

The witchers laughed while Ciri squirmed to get down faster. Once on her feet, Ciri made a considerably decent bow before looking up to seek approval from Jaskier and her father. The bard clapped and praised Ciri, earning him a pleased giggle.

It was then that Jaskier realized that the inside of Ciri’s mouth was black like ink; a sign of banshee heritage.

Oh. Well. Geralt had interesting tastes in women, Jaskier thought.

“Is he going to be my new mother?” Ciri asked innocently, making Lambert laugh obnoxiously while Eskel and Geralt looked like they were sweating intensely inside their own armors. Jaskier stood still and wished he could melt into nothingness. That wasn’t exactly the job he thought he was going to have.

Geralt knelt down to her level, “Mothers aren’t like him. They are women, Ciri.”

Ciri looked at the White Wolf dubiously, “Okay? Well, a second father then?”

Geralt grimaced and shook his head.

“What!?” Ciri screeched and the walls shook a little. “But Uncle Lambert said I’m getting a new parent! That’s not fair!”

Now Geralt really looked like he was going to skin Lambert alive. The other witcher didn’t even look repentant. Jaskier was impressed he hasn’t peed his pants yet.

“Jaskier is not like that but he would be staying with us for a long time.”

“Oh,” Ciri blinked before smiling, “Family then!”

The bard felt his breath leave him as Geralt nodded at his daughter. He came here to be Geralt’s sacrifice, a human meant to cater to whatever needs the god has. Instead, he was being adopted by the White Wolf’s own cub right after his own blood family threw him away. Destiny truly had a cruel sense of humor.

The witchers indulged Ciri a little bit more before Geralt led the bard towards his own quarters. Ciri refused to leave her father’s side, stating she wanted to get to know their new family better. The word ‘family’ made Jaskier’s heart clench.

The three walked further inside the fortress, heading straight towards the middle where Geralt and Ciri’s personal quarters were found. Jaskier walked up several flights of stairs, already straining and panting, when they reached a wooden door. Ciri was jumping up and down like she hasn’t walked very far. Supernatural strength was truly unfair.

“Here’s your room,” Geralt gestured awkwardly before Ciri kicked at his shins.

“Open the door for him,” Ciri insisted with puffed cheeks, like her father was embarassing her by having poor manners. Jaskier immediately felt fond of the child.

The White Wolf sighed before doing as commanded. Jaskier was greeted with a large room with a balcony giving him the most magnificent view of tall mountains and a glittering lake. There was a four-poster bed with crimson draperies and golden trimmings. Several rocks and gems were placed by the vanity and fireplace, all of which Ciri explained were charms meant to chase evil away. There was a connecting bathroom with a huge tub. Geralt taught him how to summon the water from the walls by knocking on the stones three times. Immediately, a gush of water came streaming straight into the tub.

“This is—“ Jaskier gasped with sparkling eyes, “This is amazing! Thank you, Geralt—“

The bard froze. He didn’t know if he was permitted to call the actual god of death by a mortal name. It was too intimate, meant for close friends, family, and lovers. Jaskier bit his lip, ready to apologize, but Geralt shook his head.

“You may call me Geralt if you like.”

Jaskier smiled. “Geralt it is then.”

The name rolled off his tongue like sweet wine. Somehow, being a human allowed to call a god so casually made Jaskier feel a little special. He might have been sent here as a sacrifice, but his luck seems to be on his side until now. The White Wolf was not hostile with him nor did he treat Jaskier with brutal indifference. It was a win.

After a while, Geralt left Jaskier to his own devices and urged Ciri to continue with her readings. The girl pouted before turning back to the human bard and saying she was happy to have a new playmate. Jaskier bowed graciously before closing the door, feeling the gravity of the situation wash through him.

Geralt still didn’t tell Jaskier what his purpose was but that’s okay. Jaskier needed time to adjust. If anything, he was grateful that he was left alone since the urge to scream and sob was slowly sinking in. Thankfully, the knickknacks scattered around his room comforted him. They were all bright and probably looked like children’s playthings but he knew incantations when he saw one. For some reason, he felt like Geralt probably ordered Jaskier’s room to be decorated in bright colors, an attempt to welcome a lost human. It was touching, seeing this clumsy mismatch of things.

Maybe getting disowned wasn’t a completely bad thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support!!
> 
> I've been trying to upload this since last night but I couldn't access ao3 for some reason.


	3. Blooming Songs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can play the following osts while reading:  
> Brave OST- The Games (Dining Hall Event)  
> Brave OST- Noble Maiden Fair (A Mhaighdean Bhan Uasal) (Ciri's Lullaby)

The night was a little colder in the Underworld. Okay, who was Jaskier kidding— it’s _freezing_ in the Underworld. The bard stayed huddled by the fire at the foot of his bed, idly drumming his fingers against his leg with a faint tune springing from his lips.

He wasn’t really feeling miserable.

Well— not after that breakdown he just had a few moments earlier. But, alas! A gentleman does not talk of moments of weakness and fragility even if his only audience is himself, says the crude voice of his step-father. The salt of his tears still clung to him but it was a good cry; more of letting go of his burdens than nurturing it.

It was the same night his belongings were finally reunited with the bard. Everything was in its proper place and more importantly, his lute was there to finally alleviate him of his boredom.

With skilled fingers, Jaskier played through the basic scale until he let himself run wild with tunes of relief and maybe a bit of sadness. Jaskier had no plans of becoming a dead-weight in the White Wolf’s fortress. Surely his prowess in music and arts would buy him a seat of— well, not importance but maybe relevance?

Keeping that thought in mind, Jaskier sat cosily by the fire and practiced his old songs from Oxenfurt. It calmed him, just like how creating songs always did, until he was fit enough to sleep through the night.

This time, he’ll have his life to himself with no ‘family’ breathing down his neck.

It should be fun.

* * *

Breakfast, for the first time, was an exciting affair. Jaskier’s speech was still slurred by sleep when he almost bit into a fruit before asking if it was from the Underworld. The bard immediately bolted awake, startling the spider-eyed maid who was taking his laundry. Thankfully, she wasn’t too sore about it.

By the time Jaskier walked down his tower, the witchers were all cleaned out of the fortress’ heart. There were only stray servants here and there, all too busy with their work to really pay attention to the human. Jaskier didn’t mind. He had his lute strapped to his chest and a cloak hanging by his shoulders. Jaskier had places to be and nook and crannies to explore. Hopefully, the White Wolf won’t mind. His legs do need a workout.

There was still an eeriness to Kaer Morhen with its high, black stone walls and moaning metal gates. Jaskier absorbed everything like a child first exposed to the world. The White Wolf’s fortress was both beautiful and terrifying. If given the chance, the bard would sing songs dedicated to the fortress itself. Truly fascinating it was; though, unfortunately, easy to get lost as well.

Jaskier tried to stick to the main halls or snuck into places where he could hear servants walking around. It was still cold and though the bard was sure it was morning, there was no sun to speak of. The inner walls were dark and smelled damp with a tinge of sulfur. Jaskier can’t wait for those horrid sulfur-smelling flowers to wilt out. He always loved flowers but these ones were like bad omens. It unnerved him a bit. Flowers shouldn’t be like— _that_.

_Smelling of death and evil._

“Lost, my lord?” asked an old looking woman with bed sheets in her arms. Jaskier startled violently, of course. The olden maid looked like one of those white ghosts his dormmates in Oxenfurt used to gossip over. It didn’t help that he can faintly hear the squelching sounds of tentacles somewhere. What on earth was that?

“Uhm,” Jaskier stuttered as he took his lute from his back and presented it like an answer, “Just looking for a place to enjoy a time of solitude.”

The old woman looked at him dubiously, like she can smell the lies off of him. She probably can, Jaskier thought to himself. Thankfully she said nothing and directed the bard to the western side of the fortress.

“The master owns a library; a true beaute it is,” crooned the woman with a small smile. “Housed at the far western side; shan’t be too hard to look for. It is the only structure in this fortress that is made out of dark glass.”

“Ah, thank you!” Jaskier smiled smartly before bowing and turning away.

“A word of caution, my lord!” she called out again, making Jaskier halt in his hasty escape. “The library is vacant for many a reason. Go no further unless ye want to know why witchers are feared.”

Jaskier looked back and to his horror, the woman _glided_ through the floor. With a scream trapped in his throat, Jaskier crawled through the exit, eternally relieved to be outside the inner walls. He supposed he looked and acted rudely but he was just a man, and he naturally had emotions such as fear.

Taking the woman’s word of advice, Jaskier walked to the direction of the library. As he went on, Jaskier noticed how parts of the floor and walls seemed to deteriorate and _breathe_. The wind picks up occasionally, making some of the weaker parts of the fortress expand and exhale like a working lung. Fortunately, the walk wasn’t too far and the glass dome of the library glittered a few feet away.

The library was splendid, with the faint light from the outside being filtered through the dark glass. The frames of the structure were a sturdy steel and coated in gold and embellishments. It was several floors off the ground, all filled with bookshelves packed with hardbound books. There was a huge fireplace seated at the right side, roaring with a flame that grumbled like a hungry goblin. At the center of the floor, lay the painted map of the mortal world and something else that the bard wasn't familiar with. Jaskier gasped in awe as he walked over the marbled floor and traced different countries with the toe of his boots.

“Oh, you’re also a beautiful lady, aren’t you?” Jaskier smiled at the glass ceiling, his lute already positioned against his body to play.

The music flowed freely from him, echoing nicely through the library in an ethereal tune. Jaskier sat by a faintly dusty couch and closed his eyes as he strummed through song after song. His voice and his lute sounded haunting and for some reason, the bard found it more attractive and alluring.

Jaskier lost track of time like that.

He didn’t even notice Kaer Morhen woke up to his song.

* * *

Jaskier fell asleep, like an idiot.

The grumbling in his belly woke the bard from his deep slumber. Jaskier was slouched like a corpse across the couch, drowning in his own cloak. His lute was tucked behind his knees, thankfully free of any scratches.

It took a few blinks before he noticed that a snowflake kissed his nose.

“Oh, what the fuck?” Jaskier groaned as he touched his nose, fingers coming away with wet drops.

The bard blinked again because he has to be still dreaming. There was a faint swirl of snow coming from the ceiling; the _glass_ ceiling. Some of the snow was already piling up by the foot of the bookshelves and a thin layer has coated his cloak. Oh dear gods, he’s actually freezing.

Jaskier sneezed twice before the ornate doors opened, revealing the frowning face of the White Wolf.

“So you were here,” Geralt sighed almost disappointedly.

Jaskier sheepishly grinned as he pulled himself up. “I swear I did not conjure snow. It just happened!”

“I know, Jaskier.” Geralt answered with exasperation, though with a hint of amusement. “The library picks up the emotions of whoever resides in this place. You were feeling awfully cold so it snowed inside.”

The bard immediately brightened up, “What!? That’s amazing! Truly magical this place is.”

The White Wolf shrugged, “It is what it is. Though admittedly, it also grows cold here because the fire is an asshole.”

Jaskier frowned, both amused at the curse word and confused as to why the god of death would call an inanimate thing an asshole.

Before the bard could even consider that Geralt has lost his mind, the white haired god walked towards the fireplace and shoved it harshly with a poker. The fire roared before a face of a goblin with a body of a dragon suddenly formed. It looked grumpily at the god before Geralt literally snarled at it.

The goblin—dragon— _whatever_ it is, snorted a thick plume of smoke in protest before heating the library up. The snow thinned until it completely disappeared, leaving no wet marks on any visible surface. Even Jaskier’s clothes felt freshly ironed.

“Thank you,” was all Jaskier could say.

Geralt grunted an affirmative noise before tipping his chin towards the exit. Jaskier immediately understood and grabbed his lute before following his lord’s tracks outside.

“Why were you even there?” Geralt asked without minding the little bard who was clumsily trying to match the god’s giant steps.

“Well, as you know I was sent here to be a sacrifice,” Jaskier started, all the while failing to see Geralt scrunch his nose in distaste at the answer. “I need to be useful here in any manner at all. So, I thought, why not play the lute for you and your fellow witchers? I could create many a song to commemorate your greatest victories! Or perhaps, I could be of help to anything dealing with the arts— perhaps even in other educational matters if you wish?”

Geralt grunted. “And you thought it best to do so by sleeping in the library?”

Jaskier’s cheeks reddened. “Truthfully, I got lost and asked one of your maids where I could spend some time for myself. I was directed here and I accidentally fell asleep.”

The god looked at Jaskier curiously then, with deep amber eyes. Jaskier felt like he was being sized up by a predator, though no fear rose in his heart.

“You shouldn’t wander too far, bard.” Geralt commented after a stretch of silence. “The western part of Kaer Morhen is the most vulnerable along with the south. Creatures of all sizes would not hesitate to slither through the fortress’ cracks if they smell human meat.”

Jaskier shuddered. “Then why not fix it?”

If looks could punch a gut, Geralt could probably do it. The white haired god looked a bit annoyed at the question like it was the dumbest pick out of all idiotic inquiries. He’s probably right but Jaskier really didn’t know any better.

“It is not like we want to leave Kaer Morhen exposed,” Geralt explained with a pinched expression. “What kind of idiot would do that? No, that part is exposed because there is no other way to fix it. I may be a god but determination and animal instincts can go very far. There’s darkness in this world, Jaskier, and I am not it.”

Jaskier looked at his lord curiously. If anything, Geralt was all the mortal world has ever known to mean as darkness and death. He was despised by many and feared by all. If a human was asked what darkness was like, they’d described Geralt. Apparently, this was untrue and Jaskier was glad to be proven wrong. He’d always had a fascination about the god of death since he was a wee babe. It was refreshing to know that the god did not share the same beliefs as the humans.

Though, concerningly, Jaskier did not like the idea that there was a darkness that was not Geralt.

* * *

Apparently, Jaskier had missed lunch.

It was a darn shame since the witchers boasted of who devoured the most meat. Eskel made a face while Lambert let out the loudest belch that Jaskier has ever heard. The witchers did not seem to mind and even cheered at the action. Jaskier’s manners went out the window as he laughed at the scene.

Of course, Jaskier was forbidden to eat anything in the Underworld. Still, it would have been such a sight to see the witchers banter and fight over food. In the mortal world, people spoke of witchers like stoic and unfeeling monsters who killed the damned and chased after souls trying to escape. The truth was far from that, apparently. _Way too far_. Positively off the mark and probably a full mountain scale away from the bullseye.

It was ridiculous.

Dinner came along and Jaskier was the first one in the dining hall. He was so early that the food and plates weren’t even set on the tables. Jaskier wasn’t disappointed. He liked what he saw.

The dining hall in its bare bones was one huge room curved into a perfect circle. There were about six large pillars holding the ceiling high. Jaskier expected that there was an elevated part of the hall, where the god and his most important advisors and warriors were to be seated. There wasn’t one, or if there is, it’s not what he had envisioned.

In the middle of the hall, there was a round table with carved wooden chairs. It was elevated but only by a step from the floor. The tables were all round and identical, with huge holes right in the middle. Jaskier felt it was probably to allow the heat to pass through from the floor to the table.

Because how could he miss the literal burning floors?

The dining halls’ floors were made of solid black stone, curved into spirals and celtic knots that formed openings for the smoldering blue flame underneath. Thankfully, the openings weren’t too large that a foot could mistakenly be slipped into it. Jaskier liked suspense but he did not appreciate the idea of being roasted alive during dinnertime. The fire wasn’t even too intense. They were like blue charcoals sitting cosily together to fight off the Underworld’s natural cold. It felt nice.

Slowly, the witchers and servants trickled in. As usual, the witchers were loud and roared taunts at each other. Interestingly, a few of them were armed with bagpipes, a flute, and a bodhrán.

 _Music!_ How fascinating.

Jaskier felt a grin on his face as he settled for the farthest seat from the middle, observing the other group of witchers roughhousing. They were getting competitive, with an older witcher with fiery red hair and full beard making fun of a younger dark haired man.

“I hope ye got nine lives, laddie!” yelled the older man, revealing a grin with missing teeth.

The younger witcher leered, “Bet ya always talk shite, old man.”

Next thing Jaskier knew, the witchers are already arm wrestling. It was a fair fight and no one seemed to back down. Their respective groups of friends kept yelling and spitting out curses until someone just had to cheat and a fight broke out. Jaskier stared incredelously as someone came flying across the hall. The sounds of punching and grunting were everywhere, accompanied by laughter and jeering. The other group of musicians simply shrugged and played a jig, further adding to the flame of the fight.

“My god,” Jaskier laughed hysterically. Life ‘upstairs’ wasn’t as interesting as this.

“Like little children,” laughed a hoarse voice from behind Jaskier. The bard was too invested in the fight to properly look at the newcomer but he replied to him nonetheless.

“Fascinating to watch if I’m being honest,” Jaskier grinned as another witcher got kneed in the groin. _Oof_. That has got to hurt.

“Would die again to know what punching feels like,” answered the eerie voice.

Jaskier jolted in his seat before slowly turning his head to see the other person. The bard screamed high and thrashed around with his lute. There was a ghost of a gaunt corpse mischievously smiling at him. The lute was useless as a weapon, unfortunately. No matter how many swings Jaskier did, all of his blows went through the apparition.

“Hey!” Eskel yelled from the entrance, having just walked in along with Lambert. “Get out of here!”

The ghost’s beady eyes widened before it scrambled away, its ghostly parts trailing in its wake.

“You alright, bard?” Lambert laughed as Eskel helped Jaskier up.

Jaskier blinked back tears, “Y-Yes. Yes. Bloody brilliant and all that.”

The witcher laughed at him, patting Jaskier’s back and telling him to get used to ghosts trying to sneak in. It’s their job to keep them away, of course, but sometimes the ghosts get crafty and liked to pick on witchers who won’t let them wander into the world of the living.

Jaskier gulped, his knees still shaking from the encounter. Maybe he should carry the talismans in his room with him now.

The fight still went on as Jaskier tried to gather his nerves. More witchers trickled in, most of them shaking their heads or laughing at the commotion. The music became rowdier and faster with food finally coming in. The distressed servants made faces at the witchers for being lumbering children. Occasionally, food would be spilled followed by a kitchen helper chasing a witcher with a wooden spoon.

Eventually, the fighting stopped once Geralt set foot into the dining hall. He grabbed both witchers by the scruff and threw them apart. He merely raised a brow before they both apologetically bowed their heads. Ciri was by her father’s side, clutching a small bouquet of buttercups.

Jaskier sighed, ready to shove food into his mouth. The sight of human food on the table was getting to him. Though, surprisingly, it was set at the main table.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Eskel asked when he noticed Jaskier returning to his seat at the corner.

Jaskier made a confused noise before he was manhandled to the elevated table. Geralt didn’t acknowledge him but Ciri was obviously excited that she’s getting a new seatmate.

“Look!” Ciri announced while proudly displaying the bunch of buttercups in her chubby hands. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

Jaskier smiled, “Not as beautiful as you, my sweet.”

Ciri bit her lip shyly before fondly stroking the petals, “Do you know what they’re called, Jaskier?”

The bard laughed genuinely, grabbing the attention of the once distracted White Wolf. Jaskier leaned towards the little girl. “Oh you just said its name, dear. It’s a ‘jaskier’, a buttercup.”

Ciri made an awed sound and proceeded to ask Jaskier plenty of questions about his name and the flower. Jaskier answered them as gracefully as he can, obviously already missing the first few minutes of dinner.

“Let him eat, Ciri.” Geralt reminded his daughter.

The little girl looked a little embarrassed and apologized to Jaskier. The bard grinned and said it wasn’t a problem at all. Ciri was very pleased and placed a golden buttercup behind his ear.

“There!” Ciri giggled. “Now you’re truly a beautiful buttercup.”

Geralt watched warmly from the side, noting with a pleased smirk that Jaskier blushed and smiled happily. Dinner continued with the same warm atmosphere floating around. At the near end, the musicians returned to their places and played another jig. Their skills might not have been as honed as those in Oxenfurt but their spirit gave their music a life that is more joyous and upbeat than those made by stiff-collared musicians in Redania.

Jaskier inevitably joined in, surprising the witchers due to the quality of his voice and his mastery of the lute. The bard was unfamiliar with their tunes but Jaskier prided himself in learning quickly. Soon enough, he managed to memorize each note and added his own to make it more appealing. The witchers laughed hard, thoroughly impressed by the little lark bouncing in a hall full of the world’s deadliest warriors.

“Lad’s got iron balls,” muttered one of the grey haired witchers.

By the end of the night, Jaskier earned respectful and amused nods from witchers and servants alike. Geralt didn’t seem to express much emotion but there was a distinct softness to the line of his pressed lips, amber eyes glowing with barely hidden amusement. Jaskier bowed and finally the whole affair of dinner ended.

Ciri was drowsy but valiantly tried to fight back her exhaustion. Geralt smiled and picked up the girl, heading down the hall and walking towards Ciri’s tower.

The buttercup in her hands fell from Ciri’s fingers, prompting tears from the tired child’s eyes.

Jaskier was quick to pick them up and trail after the father and daughter duo.

“I—uhm, Geralt!” Jaskier shouted to make the white haired god to stop. Geralt turned around and saw the flowers in Jaskier’s hand and heard his daughter’s faint sniffling.

“Thank you,” Geralt whispered before tilting his chin and walking towards Ciri’s room. Jaskier blinked his confusion before following. He didn’t think he’d be allowed to this part of the fortress. Jaskier knew how protective parents could be especially against strangers. Still, he thought maybe it’s because Geralt knew he could end the bard with just his fingers. Oh— well, that train of thought was _obviously_ not well thought out.

Jaskier cleared his throat, feeling his cheeks burn up. Where the hell did that come from?

Geralt wordlessly shouldered the door open, immediately heading straight to the bed to deposit his little lump of a cub. Jaskier looked around the room. It was decently high up and was filled with a combination of dolls, laces, and wooden swords. There was a bathroom connected to the room and thankfully had a small cup. Jaskier walked in to fill the cup with water and place the buttercups inside.

By the time Jaskier returned to the bedroom, he was greeted by the sight of a grumpy cub and her father trying to coax her into sleep.

Jaskier placed the buttercups by her bedside table.

“M’not sleepy,” Ciri protested with wild curls falling around her face.

Geralt sighed, “Yes you are, Ciri.”

“No!” Ciri complained on more time. Geralt looked about ready to jump off the window.

Jaskier cleared his throat, “If I may?”

Geralt looked at him curiously before making space on the bed. It wasn’t that difficult. The child’s bed is big enough to fit at least three adults and still have some leg space. Jaskier started to strum his lute, trying to wrack his brain into thinking a good song to make a child fall asleep.

Finally, a thought hit him and the bard’s face softened into nostalgia.

His mother sang a lot to him when he was a boy. Sometimes, she sings them in a language that he doesn’t know of. It didn’t matter to Jaskier as his mother’s emotions flowed through them. There was one particular song she always liked to sing to her son when it’s time for heads to rest. Jaskier memorized the foreign words, wrote them down on his now battered notebook, the coal of his pencil starting to blur away.

Slowly, the words came to him like a child coming home after a long day of being away from home. He spoke of words that sounded of comfort and growing up; words that assured their child will be looked after as they grew up like strong kingdoms across the world. Ciri’s heavy eyelids slowly slid shut, her head falling further into the softness of her pillows. By Jaskier’s side, Geralt had stiffened and stared at the bard with rounded eyes.

Jaskier was too lost in memory, brimming with happiness at the melody that reminds him of his mother.

The song finally came to an end with Ciri letting out soft noises of sleep.

Geralt would remain silent as they exited the room, his amber eyes staring at the buttercups that grew in Kaer Morhen for the first time in his entire existence.

Buttercups are not supposed to grow in the Underworld—

—but here they are now, existing with Jaskier; a bard who can speak the language of gods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoyed writing this one! It took longer than planned to create this but I'm quite happy with the result? See you in the next chapter!! Also you can go say hi on twitter if you like! I also make art there~ (@MishkaYustina)


	4. Suspicion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt suspects. Jaskier is confused and a little horny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might be a little ooc for some characters since I don't have a firm grasp of their personalities yet.

Geralt knew he was staring rather intensely at the descending outlines of Jaskier’s back. They had just lulled little Ciri to sleep; a rather impressive feat when the girl was throwing another tantrum. Last time two towers eroded into rubbles when Ciri wailed her distress. Kaer Morhen originally had nine towers. However, it was not the skill of the bard to calm a child that had prompted Geralt’s entire being into a defensive. Jaskier, a supposed mortal, used words that were only known to gods. The absurdity and threat of the situation has the White Wolf’s mind running in a constant whir.

Jaskier, however, was blessedly ignorant of his lord’s glare. The brunet hummed softly under his breath, smelling sweetly of flowers, wide meadows, and _life_. Geralt was baffled to say the least. He didn’t know the intentions of the mortal but at least he didn’t smell of ill-intent.

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed under his breath. When did his life suddenly start getting off track from the mundane existence that is the Underworld?

“Did you say something?” Jaskier asked as he turned around, a soft smile upon his lips. Geralt immediately stilled as if snapped out of a trance. The bard looked at him expectantly and there goes that soft smell of his again. It would help Geralt’s mind if the bard’s scent wasn’t like _that_.

Apparently, it took long for Geralt to finally compose himself as his companion’s warm gaze turned confused. The White Wolf cleared his throat. “I didn’t say a word.”

Jaskier shrugged before bowing to the god and bidding him a good night in a rather dramatic fashion. Geralt momentarily forgot his suspicions against the bard and fondly rolled his eyes. The bard laughed at the expression and twirled away, his lute singing softly along with its owner.

‘Fuck,’ Geralt cursed internally. This is a new foe that he does not know how to deal with.

* * *

Dawn fast approached though the light was still rather dim in the Underworld. Geralt had been pacing all night after sending his fastest raven to deliver a message. It had been a long time since he last called upon the sorceress. Their relationship was a bit complicated since centuries ago. Thankfully, the woman held no ill will against the god for his decision to not be romantically attached to anyone for a long period of time. She still promised to tutor Ciri when the time comes.

It is never a good idea to be on the bad side of a sorceress after all.

Hours after dawn, a screech of a gryffin greeted the fortress of Kaer Morhen. The witchers that stood guard all looked up to see the great form of the beast circle in preparation for its descent. There were arched brows and mischevous smirks.

Triss Merigold has finally returned to Kaer Morhen.

Geralt had long scented the arrival of Triss’ gryffin before it even made its dreadful sound. The stench of sweat and danger of the creature was a comfort as it signalled Triss’ willingness to hear him out. Geralt had his... doubts. Triss had her own life now and though a little less harsher than Yennefer, she did not appreciate being disturbed.

The god took long strides down his tower, grateful that the bard has yet to leave his own quarters. Whatever business he had with Triss should be kept to the upmost secrecy. A snarl left the god’s mouth. He didn’t like being in this type of dark. Geralt must find out whether Jaskier was a threat or not, and fast. He didn’t want to endanger Ciri.

“A little too early for a _tryst_ , ain’t it?” Lambert smugly whispered to Eskel and their companions while making their way through the courtyard. Eskel rolled his eyes. The pun was intended there somewhere.

Triss looked lovely, if not a little out of place, as she walked through Kaer Morhen. The sorceress wore a dress of emerald green with golden trimmings, topped with a black robe befitting her station. She also wore a large pointed black hat decorated with the stuffed head of a small cockatrice and a cluster of eyes and spider legs sewn together. Gold also dripped from her neck and fingers, displaying her abundance in wealth.

She smiled knowingly as she watched Geralt make his way to her.

“Having trouble with flowers, Geralt?” Triss full on grinned.

The god grumbled, knowing that he was being slightly played with. “We have yet to know.”

Triss rolled her eyes with a chuckle before turning to the side and presenting the long field across Kaer Morhen. Geralt’s eyes widened a fraction as he took in what was once a dying barren land, now dotted with flowers that were unmistakably buttercups and cornflowers. The native sulfuric flowers were choking to death by the abundance of life.

Some of the foreign flowers have even grown through the cracks of the cobblestone floor of the courtyard. _How did he not notice that?_

“That takes very powerful and impressive magic,” Triss stated, her tone coated with a warning. Geralt did not like that.

As if on cue, Jaskier stumbled into the courtyard mid-song. The bard’s eyes widened as he took in the view of a newcomer. Geralt would have laughed at the mortal’s confused expression, mouth agape like a fish out of water before composing himself and bowing like he was in court. Unfortunately, Geralt was still wary of the bard so no fond smirks could be gifted.

“Milady,” Jaskier greeted with a bow, his lute still held in his hands. There was a clump of flowers tied to its neck. Geralt eyed them with suspicion and a tiny bit of contempt.

“You must be the bard,” Triss smiled gently as if she did not know the contents of Geralt’s letter that sent her here. “It is nice to meet you. I am Triss Merigold, sorceress of the Underworld and the Emerald Seas.”

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove,” Jaskier answered with a confident smile. “Though, I am usually called Jaskier.”

“Like the buttercups?” Triss teased which made Geralt a little concerned.

Jaskier smiled brightly at the recognition. “Yes! Almost everyone gets it wrong. I am impressed.”

Triss smiled indulgently. “I suppose it comes with the job of being a sorceress. Can’t get the flora and fauna wrong, of course. You’ve a beautiful bouquet, dear. It matches your eyes and your namesake.”

Surprisingly, the bard flushed a healthy hue of red with no witty words falling from his mouth. Jaskier stuttered at the attention and was painfully unaware that he was being tested and played with. Geralt remained silent as Triss had her share of conversing with the brunet. Jaskier finally recovered from swooning and had proven himself a worthy adversary in the art of verbal jabs. Triss’ eyes crinkled until the bard excused himself to go off and work on new songs for a little cub.

Geralt refused to make eye contact the whole time.

He didn’t notice Jaskier’s disappointed frown.

“You can look now,” Triss laughed as she eyed the awkward looking god who was glaring at the ground. “It’s not as if you’ll catch the plague if he looks at you.”

Geralt made a vague noise before gesturing for her to follow him. They had a lot of things to talk about and he can’t risk it being heard by the bard or anyone else he didn’t trust fully. His suspicions could cause unnecessary outrage, the one emotion probably still left in witchers. Geralt had to move carefully.

* * *

Jaskier was lost in his thoughts, lute still strumming sadly while he walked aimlessly. He can’t figure out this thin film of wrongness sticking to his skin. Yesterday had been a delightful affair with him finally seeing a possible place among crowds of witchers and other sorts of creatures. Jaskier had truly been doing well and good. He had even helped Ciri fall asleep for goodness sakes!

However, despite all of that effort, it seems that he had backpedaled spectacularly. Geralt, though usually distant, looked wary and suspicious of the bard. Jaskier tried to think of all the moments he could have caused offense but he came up with nothing. Was his singing not welcome here? Did Jaskier cause some sort of disrespect by playing his lute with the other witchers without asking permission? It didn’t seem so when it was obvious that the god’s fellow witchers approved of his performance.

“Fucking—“ Jaskier cursed with a hiss before attempting to kick a rock and missing it entirely. “You know what, fuck me!”

Jaskier sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He just can’t get things right anywhere he goes. Perhaps it is his fault for not learning more about the practices and culture of those who permanently resides in the Underworld. The bard could not just simply rely on his wit and charm like he did in the world of the living. The rules were different here and if he wants to live, then he has to learn hard and fast.

By the gods, didn’t this remind him of trying to survive a decent family dinner upstairs.

“Oh but who will ever teach a mortal in this realm?” Jaskier sighed once again, feeling a little desperate.

What he’d do to talk to Yennefer. The priestess would know exactly how to behave in a place like this, plus she’s supposed to know about everything and anything regarding Geralt. The trouble is Jaskier doesn’t know if he’s allowed to leave the Underworld this early or even if he’s allowed to leave _at all_.

_Do they have some sort of messenger birds in the Underworld?_

“What are you doing?” cried a little voice, prompting Jaskier to jump out of his skin. He did not cry for help. _Definitely not._

“Oh, sweet lord,” Jaskier groaned before eyeing the little form of Ciri all dressed up in a laced blue blouse and riding trousers. “Oh! It’s you, princess.”

Ciri made a little wave. “Have you seen father? He’s supposed to take me to ride the horsies by the meadows but he’s _late_!”

“I, uh, your father has a visitor, I’m afraid.” Jaskier answered unsurely. He didn’t know what exactly she was to Geralt or to Ciri. Maybe her mother? They did have the same curls. Huh. Why did that feel odd to him? “Are you all alone here, love? Where’s your governess?”

Ciri made a weird face like Jaskier was an idiot. “I don’t need a nanny.”

“’Course not!” Jaskier agreed readily before taking Ciri’s hand and finally taking stock of his surroundings. The bard was surprised that his feet had led him to the direction of the library, a place Geralt strictly warned him about. Good thing Ciri had stopped him before he fell lower down the ladder of Kaer Morhen’s social hierarchy. “Maybe we could find someone who could help?”

“They’re _‘busy’_ doing adult stuff,” Ciri rolled her eyes in a dramatic fashion with finger quotes. The little girl is clearly not in the mood now that her time riding ‘horsies’ had been cut down. Not that Jaskier would understand how night-mares earned the fond title but maybe there’s something sweet about them?

“Well, I don’t know about you but I’m quite the charmer.” Jaskier winked. “Maybe a little persuasion won’t hurt.”

Ciri finally grinned broadly before they literally skipped down the cobblestone steps of the fortress. The servants weren’t very helpful, all answering that they haven’t seen their lord since early this morning. Jaskier thanked them nonetheless before circling for more people or... creatures which could clue them in on Geralt’s whereabouts. The witchers were scarce today with the lot of them spending time deep into the forest for training. By the time the afternoon bell tolled, Ciri was already lagging behind.

Jaskier frowned before bending down to the girl’s eye level, “Hey, do you want to ride my shoulders instead?”

Ciri brightened up considerably, bouncing on her aching feet and making grabby hands at the bard. Jaskier laughed indulgently before slinging his lute down to his elbows and scooping up the squirming girl. At least he has one friend in this realm, no matter how tiny she is.

“You have flowers too!” Ciri announced with renewed vigor. She was making sweet humming noises and babbling words of nonsense occasionally.

Jaskier eyed his lute where the small bouquet of flowers was tied. He had been delighted that morning to be rid of the stench of sulfur, and even more so when the bright blooms grew down the steps of his tower. Jaskier had picked them with hope in his heart. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

“My flowers were getting sad this morning,” Ciri sighed before resting her chin on Jaskier’s head. “So so sad!”

Jaskier hummed a comforting noise. He can’t help but relate to the flowers.

Thankfully, they had spotted Eskel though the witcher was all covered in black goop and red tipped thorns, smelling of rot and copper. He also had an older witcher trailing beside him too, though more clean and less annoyed about getting dirty.

“Troublemaker,” the older witcher teased. Jaskier thought the witcher was referring to him.

Apparently it was meant for Ciri who made faces and swung her legs excitedly. The older witcher laughed before taking the girl off of Jaskier’s numbed shoulders. The bard was secretly thankful but he held back his tongue.

“She didn’t bully you into this, did she?” Eskel asked with an exasperated but fond look. It seems that their littlest resident had a habit of getting into trouble while still maintaining a sweet and shy look. Jaskier was already very fond of her.

The bard shook his head, “No, I actually offered it. We were looking for Gera— for, uh, the White Wolf but no one has seen him. Ciri was getting impatient. Her father seemed to forget about a promise about horseback riding.”

Both Eskel and the older witcher winced. Ciri was definitely getting back on her father for that.

“Ah, yes. I forgot!” Eskel clapped his hands together before gesturing to the older witcher. “This is Vesemir, the Elder Witcher. Though, the gods know he’s more than that.”

Vesemir shot Eskel a nasty look before tipping his head at Jaskier. “Pleasure, bard. You’re Jaskier, aren’t you?”

Jaskier nodded self-consciously, trying to make himself look smaller to— well, he felt like he was going to be stabbed in the neck just being in Vesemir’s presence. There’s something very old about the witcher, almost ancient and a little terrifying. He looked different from the most of them, with the man’s irises almost going full white. There were cogs and clock pieces strapped to his belt and he held a nasty looking scythe that was— was it bloody blinking at him? Jaskier was about to faint.

Vesemir eyed the bard with a critical look before returning to his neutral appearance. “If it’s Geralt you’re looking for then you two should come with us. I came here all the way to Kaer Morhen to slap some senses into the runt.”

Eskel choked on a snort while Jaskier tried to untangle his tongue and decline the invitation. He was just escorting Ciri! He didn’t want to—

“You coming, bard?” Eskel asked as both witchers were already walking their way into the fortress. Jaskier sighed because, well, he really has nowhere to go to. Maybe the bard could get some new instructions from the White Wolf himself. He doubts it.

* * *

It was already late into lunch time, as Ciri helpfully pointed out, when the group had been passing a narrow hall at the farmost east of the fortress. It was considerably colder with only a few torches lit up, hanging from chains fastened into the ceiling. From down below, was a spiraling staircase of dark stone, covered in purple and black moss. Jaskier chanced a glimpse only to be surprised by a violent burst of cold water spouting out, reaching the very top of the tallest tower.

“Careful, bard.” Eskel teased as he watched the frightened bard gape at the rushing water. “That one is notorious for taking people’s faces off.”

Jaskier blinked before looking closely and seeing a ghostly face of a woman with dark hair. She had black eyes and no eyebrows, with rows of shark-like teeth in display as she eyed the brunet bard like he was her next meal.

Oh no, thanks.

“Always exciting, this place.” Jaskier mumbled sarcastically to himself and Eskel, his lute a steady makeshift shield against the lady in the water. Oh gods, she turned her neck like an owl. _Disgusting._

Eskel laughed. “Nobody has said that in a hundred years or more.”

“Well, I’m saying it now.” Jaskier sighed in relief when they finally passed the dreadful hallway and walked into a rather fancier part of the fortress. “The most adventure I have got from upstairs was being chased by angry husbands and fathers while only dressed in stolen sheets. Though, I suppose being sacrificed to a god also falls within that category.”

“Sounds awfully dull,” Eskel commented. They have reached an area that looked liked a roundabout, several hallways connected by an indoor fountain that bubbled with copper stained water. “Never been attacked by a witcher then?”

Jaskier’s eyebrows scrunched together, “Why would I? Witchers don’t go after humans.”

“Not all mortals agree,” Vesemir cut in suddenly. “Witchers go mad for blood and violence, they say. Is that not what you humans were taught at a young age?”

“My mother certainly did not say any of the sort,” Jaskier answered as if he needed to defend his upbringing. His mother has raised an unprejudiced child. Jaskier will not spit on her memory now. “Townsfolk from different places love a good myth, I suppose. They make stuff up about witchers if it makes for a good story or coin.”

“You don’t believe them?” Eskel asked with a quirked brow. Jaskier felt like his answer will determine his place; a test of sorts.

“I am a bard, good sir.” Jaskier answered steadily though his lungs and knees threatened to give out on him. He won’t let anything like fear get in his way now. Besides, it’s not like Jaskier has anywhere else to run. “Spinning together tales of bravery and massacre is what we do and it’s not always an exact mirror of the truth. Respect does not make history, after all. Though, quite honestly, I am rather fascinated by a witcher’s lifestyle. Can’t go much on song details when merely observing the tiring life of common folk.”

Vesemir and Eskel looked at each other before falling into silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable. For some reason, Jaskier felt like he had won a fearsome battle against two wolves. With Vesemir making him the center of jest after a few minutes, Jaskier felt confident he definitely had just won a place, no matter how inconsequential.

They finally arrived at what looked like a hallway leading up to large ornate doors. The stone that made up the floor here were smooth and the color of ebony. There were shields and all assortments of weapons hung on the walls, torches lit up high with a tinge of the color green. Jaskier eyed the nasty scratches embedded on the walls, like animal claws, and some of them looking like symbols for witchcraft. The air also smelled a little damp and heavy with the spice of foreign herbs.

“Smells like shit as always,” Vesemir complained. Ciri made a face.

There were no guards by the door which undoubtedly belong to Geralt, because of course there won’t. If anything, it’s the intruders who would need guards if they wanted to place their hands upon the god.

Eskel made few short knocks and a grunting noise. Jaskier tilted his head in fascination. They truly acted like wolves sometimes, it was— endearing? Oh gods, he was getting used to this place pretty quickly.

Geralt must have made some sort of answering noise because the doors opened, revealing a large room filled to the brim with all sorts of dried herbs, pickled parts of various creatures, and an obnoxious pile of maps, recipes, and other sorts of scribbles that looked like nonsense to Jaskier.

It seems that the god wasn’t alone. Triss was also there though several feet apart from the scowling White Wolf. They were chatting about something, though certainly not of the flirtatious nature. Jaskier’s eyebrows scrunched together at that odd observation. His mind was flying everywhere again.

Vesemir was the first to walk in, speaking in tongues that Jaskier doesn’t understand but seems strangely familiar with. The old man brandished Ciri like a weapon; an angry tabby cat with hands planted on its waist. Geralt had the decency to look apologetic and small against his displeased cub. It was very endearing to watch.

The two witchers conversed, with Vesemir putting on a tone of an admonishing father and Geralt sounding a little disgruntled. Triss politely stepped out of the way, winking at Jaskier as if sharing a joke with him. The bard laughed softly to himself before finding a plush chair which was unoccupied by tomes of magical books and potions. Cleaning this place up must be a nightmare, Jaskier thought.

Eskel also stepped out of the way, mainly because once he tried to say a word, Vesemir would redirect his wrath on him. Jaskier smiled as the witcher sat next to him, clearly unmindful of sitting on a table covered in dirt and dried leaves.

“This is going to take two hours at the very least,” Eskel snorted as he scooted further into a comfortable position.

Jaskier grinned. “You time it?”

“We’ve a running bet on who will get the longest lecture from him,” Eskel answered with ill-suppressed glee. “The average time is two hours and the longest went on for about fourteen hours straight.”

The bard whistled in awe. “What ever happened to make him so angry for that long?”

Eskel shrugged. “You really don’t want to know how centaurs were truly made.”

True to his word, Vesemir didn’t look like he was going to run out of breath. Ciri had inevitably been put down so that she could eat her lunch which was brought in by a servant. Thankfully, food was also provided for the rest of them trapped in the room. Eskel looked a little bored, poking at his squirming food while Jaskier nibbled on his normal looking bread and dried meat. Significant time has passed and Jaskier’s mind floated once again. His eyes landed on Ciri who was making a tower out of her leftovers.

“I thought witchers were infertile,” Jaskier blurted out carelessly. The bard immediately turned red upon realizing what he said. Eskel merely looked at him like he had a few screws loose.

“And you said you didn’t listen to witcher nonsense from common folk.”

“I don’t!” Jaskier hissed defensively, earning the attention of Vesemir and Geralt. Jaskier recoiled and waved them off. “I mean, I just heard but clearly I’m wrong. Ciri exists after all.”

Jaskier sighed and placed his chin above his hand. “The people always talked nonsense about witchers not feeling a thing. Creatures of the night meant only to kill and be killed. I bet they’ll soil their trousers once they hear the actual White Wolf fell in love and sired an heir.”

There was a strange tone in Jaskier’s voice as he said the words. He was truly mystified by legends and myths but nothing is more breathtaking than seeing reality unfold. Love was a beautiful thing to witness and maybe that’s the troubadour part of Jaskier that’s talking, but it’s the very core truth of his essence. Surely, Geralt wouldn’t be one of those gods who forced themselves upon mortals. He also genuinely loved his daughter. Love must have been part of the equation.

“Whoever this woman Geralt has fallen in love with,” Jaskier sighed distractedly, “She must be a fearsome thing to behold.”

Eskel was silent for a while, looking at the bard with a complicated look. “You know there’s such a thing as adoption.”

“What!?” Jaskier shrieked and everyone’s head turned to his direction.

Vesemir looked annoyed, the lines of his face more prominent as he glared at Jaskier’s form. “Problem?”

“Don’t bully him!” Ciri defended with puffed cheeks while Jaskier tried so hard to infuse with the background.

Eskel tilted his head in submission, a non-verbal apology just to wave off Vesemir’s attention towards them. Geralt looked pained when Vesemir turned towards him again.

“Geralt might have fucked around but he never impregnated a single woman,” Eskel began as he pretended to be cleaning up their plates just so he could turn his back from Vesemir. “Besides, settling down is probably not Geralt’s priority. The closest he had was with Yennefer of Vengerberg but that ended in a spectacular shitshow.”

Jaskier looked like he was about to faint. His face was turning into a shade of purple as he pressed his lips together to hold in a rather loud scream. Yennefer? Had a thing with Geralt? And never told Jaskier!? Th _e absolute betrayal._

“Do not burst a vein, bard.” Eskel sighed. “Cleaning up a corpse in my current state is not ideal.”

Of course, Eskel was still covered in dried black goop though most of it evaporated or were wiped discreetly on whatever blank parchment was unfortunate enough to grab the witcher’s attention.

Jaskier frowned before taking a deep breath. “W-We’re talking about actual Yennefer here? Like the sorceress who would gladly step on men should they breathe in her direction?”

Eskel nodded which made Jaskier slide a bit from his seat.

“Of course she’d be screwing with the actual god of death and survive,” Jaskier blew a breath, causing his hair to flop towards his eye.

“Mind if I join in?”

Jaskier startled from his seat, almost bumping into Triss if she hadn’t been fast enough to catch him. The sorceress laughed daintily before assisting the bard back up. Eskel had also grabbed Jaskier’s arm and dragged him further into his seat.

“Forgive me but I don’t think I can work while Vesemir is tearing Geralt a new one,” Triss smiled. “What’s so interesting that got you all worked up, bard?”

Jaskier stuttered for an answer but Eskel was fast enough to answer for him. “Scandalized by witcher sex life.”

The brunet bard made an indignant noise, “Good sir, I am a bard by profession. How could I be so faint-hearted in the matters of the flesh!? Besides, that’s not the reason why I got surprised!”

Triss lighted up and conjured a seat out of thin air. “Oh this is more interesting to listen to. Have you any knowledge about witchers and their _activities_ , Jaskier?”

Jaskier looked back and forth between Triss and Eskel, both looking like hungry predators which ensnared their prey. From the opposite side of the room, Geralt chanced a glance at him with worried and confused golden eyes. Jaskier’s heart jumped when Geralt looked straight at him for the first time today.

Eskel and Triss were saying something, probably a naughty topic that Jaskier wasn’t fully paying attention to. Eskel seemed fed up and placed a hand on the bard’s arm to draw his attention. Geralt’s lips flattened and twitched like he was suppressing a snarl. Jaskier’s eyes widened before Geralt frowned deeply and forcibly cut off their eye contact.

Oh dear.

Jaskier’s heart thumped around like a giddy rabbit. What the hell was that?

Triss snapped her fingers and just like that, the spell-like trance Jaskier was under had vanished. In a span of an hour, the bard was teased and educated about the cruder part of witcher life. Jaskier had thought he has heard it all. The days he spent in the university were truly a learning experience, especially when one shared a full dormitory with boys wanting to learn about the full extent of their bodies. He’s heard stories and sometimes accidentally walked in or heard couplings. Some bragged and exaggerated and Jaskier up to this day balked about how Valdo Marx described his skilled cock. It was a lie, he knew. A barmaid Jaskier had slept with had expressed her dismay at how fast the prick had finished.

Full pun intended.

However, Jaskier wasn’t prepared for how witchers had sex. It was truly a different skill set and required a partner who could withstand a witcher’s unnatural stamina. Jaskier gulped, feeling his mouth go dry as they recounted how insatiable witchers are especially when they find their mates.

“Mates?” Jaskier asked innocently as sweat dripped down his brow. “You mean like actual wolves mating for life?”

Eskel’s eyes glowed. “The very same.”

Jaskier sweated under his doublet. Triss had no qualms about describing everything in detail and from the sound of it, a human would barely be able to stand after they have mated with a witcher. Not that it happened often. Some dirty part of Jaskier wondered what it was like to be fully under the mercy of a witcher, with their brute strength and unending hunger for more pleasure. This was an awkward time to get hard but cocks were known to have the dumber version of a head. Jaskier pressed his thighs together, praying that the creative imageries in his head would stop replaying over and over.

Thankfully, Ciri came to his rescue once again. The child had grown bored of playing with her cutlery and leftovers and toddled towards where most of the adults of the room had huddled. Jaskier quickly pasted a quivering smile as Ciri grilled them about what they’re talking about. She was a smart girl but Triss had her creative away on going around the subject.

“Uncle Vesemir!” Ciri wailed when she finally picked a clean spot to sit next to her favorite bard. “I’m bored! Can we stop reprimanding father? I wanna go play with Jaskier!”

The bard trembled, torn between hushing the little cub or agreeing with her. Jaskier’s bottom was sore from sitting in the same position for so long and his legs felt cramped and needed a good stretch. The Elder Witcher sighed defeatedly before muttering some strange words to Geralt and leaving him be. The White Wolf sagged in relief.

Geralt called over Ciri and bent down to speak to her in soft tones. Jaskier didn’t have the hearing ability of a witcher but he could clearly see that Ciri was getting upset. Triss seemed to notice as well and stood up like it was her cue. The sorceress gave Jaskier a soft smile and shook his shoulder before leaving. Ciri looked like a tomato with a very cute scowl. It seems like Geralt has ordered her to stay with Triss to learn a few basics about magic.

Jaskier bit his lip. He can’t help but feel like Ciri is being kept away from him all of a sudden.

His suspicions deepened when only Vesemir, Eskel and Jaskier were led out of the room. The bard looked back at the White Wolf with quivering unsure eyes and was met with Geralt’s forced frown. Jaskier was losing his mind. He didn’t know what it is that he did to earn a sudden coldness form the god of death. Ciri was already crying behind closed doors when Jaskier walked through the frigid hallway.  
  


* * *

  
Jaskier tried to walk as silently as possible.

He was still in the company of Vesemir while Eskel had parted ways to finally take a well-deserved bath. Jaskier tried to come up with a poor excuse to escape but the Elder Witcher had insisted and told the bard that he was finally assigned a permanent place in Kaer Morhen.

They were walking towards the Western wing now and maybe its Jaskier’s dramatic paranoia talking but it feels like he’s walking towards the gallows. The bard wasn’t even allowed here anymore, with what monsters were lurking and bidding time to crawl through the cracks of the White Wolf’s keep. Jaskier wanted to protest or at least tell Vesemir what Geralt had warned him about; however, it’s quite obvious that someone who just literally berated the god of death to the ground knew exactly what he was doing. Jaskier resigned himself to silence.

The familiar glass dome of the library finally came into view, though there’s suspiciously a shape of horse stomping on the roof. Vesemir didn’t look surprised but rather exasperated.

“Come down from there,” Vesemir called before the night-mare neighed and indignantly snorted. It took a while before it finally made its way down.

Jaskier blinked hard at what he was seeing.

Vesemir made a clicking noise, urging the night-mare to move closer until he can pat its dusty coal neck. Flecks of dust and soot came away with Vesemir’s hand. “This here is named Roach. She’s Geralt’s personal night-mare in more ways than one.”

Jaskier tried to stop a smile at the subtle insult but failed.

“Geralt has told me you are skilled in arts and have a potential to be a professor,” Vesermir hummed in assessment. Jaskier was surprised that Geralt would even tell the Elder Witcher snippets about him. Even more surprising is that Geralt actually remembered all the things that he was rambling about. Normally, people wouldn’t pay attention to him when he was being talkative. Wait a minute, he didn’t tell Geralt his full credentials at Oxenfurt—

“Truth be told, there’s not much work available for that kind of profession here in the Underworld, but perhaps you’d be agreeable to being the keeper of this library.”

“Oh—uh, me?” Jaskier tripped through his words, completely losing his previous train of thought. “I— thank you but what is it that I’m supposed to do? Geral—the White Wolf told me to keep away from this place since it’s dangerous.”

Vesemir smiled lightly for the first time. “He’s just being overprotective. Roach will accompany you though she likes to stay on the roof so she won’t be in your way. This night-mare is Geralt’s most trusted. She’ll keep you away from harm if anything happens.”

Jaskier eyed the mare which only snorted at him with glowing eyes.

With barely a few clear instructions, Vesemir has left Jaskier by the entrance of the library with a bored looking night-mare in tow. The bard gripped his lute tightly, the flowers fluttering nervously and shrinking. Jaskier didn’t notice the movement but it caught Roach’s attention. The night-mare tried to nip at the quivering flowers.

“Ah!” Jaskier squawked in reproach as he protectively covered the bouquet. “No eating of precious flora.”

Roach snorted and stomped on the ground before making its way into the library. Jaskier panicked and tried to follow the horse. ‘Were animals even allowed in the library?’ Jaskier thought hysterically as Roach made its way towards the familiar fire goblin-dragon and tried to bully it.

Jaskier sighed looking at the thousands of dusty bookshelves and ornate lamps and furniture that needed a good scrubbing.

Time to get to work?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Late update, I know. I was originally going to post this a week after I posted the last chapter but uh... some people online harassed me for making content for this pair and I just lost my creative streak wew. Anyway I hope this turned out okay? Hopefully I can still power through this fic.
> 
> Thanks for the warm comments, everyone! Remember also to be nice to strangers especially when they're not hurting anyone. You don't know what they're going through. If you don't like something then just leave it.
> 
> Thanks again :)


	5. The Bastard Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier gets hurt enough to show his true colors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda whump jaskier??? This chapter isn't very pretty. Mostly angst but we kinda need it so they could get over themselves oops;;;

Jaskier was elbow deep in soap suds and cold water as he tirelessly scrubbed the wide expanse of the library floor clean. He’s in a miserable mood and knew well enough that he was taking it out on the innocent floor. The air smelled a bit stale and acrid from the regrowth of the sulfuric flowers again. As the sweet smelling cornflowers and buttercups slowly died, the more Jaskier’s temper fluctuated.

Geralt was ignoring him, he knew it. Sometimes the god of death would pass by the same hallway as Jaskier and the white haired prick wouldn’t even look at him. Jaskier felt afraid at first, knowing that a god’s anger would surely spell trouble for him. However, as time passed, Jaskier slowly grew indignant and angry.

It would be fine if the god completely ignored him. Heaven knows how much practice he had developing thick skin against his family with a similar dismissive intent. What truly pushed the bard was that Geralt would sometimes pay him attention, soft smirks and ill-disguised concern, but then retract a full yard away from him. It was truly driving Jaskier mad.

“Stupid...bollocks... fucking,” Jaskier muttered angrily to himself as he wiped down an already clean part of the marbled floor. His hands stung and turned into an angry shade of red. Jaskier hands were not used to the mechanical act of housechores and so his skin pulled and looked a scrub away from tearing. The bard didn’t care. Overworking himself was sometimes the only way he could forget momentarily.

Roach neighed apprehensively from the sides. Although the night-mare’s first few days of interaction with the bard had been rough and consisted of only bullying and eye rolls, Roach grew comfortable enough around the bard to trust him. At first, Roach tried to get a rise out of the human by shaking her body and creating a mess of soot and dust on the floor. Jaskier protested and threatened the horse with a broom which was answered with an amused neigh. Now, however, Roach just stared at the mortal with concern.

Roach neighed pitifully.

“I know, I know.” Jaskier laughed a little sadly. “Let a man vent his frustrations through beating up an inanimate object, why don’t you? It’s not as if I can beat up the true object of my anger.”

Roach remained quiet though Jaskier could practically feel the horse judging him.

Or maybe he was just growing insane.

“I hate you.” Jaskier glared at the night-mare with little heat before standing up and practically almost falling face first into the bucket of dirty water he was holding. His knees ached and the cold crept up through his bones. Ugh. He was getting old. What a tragedy.

By the time Jaskier had finished clearing up the first floor, the sound of a bell and a yelling witcher echoed through the fortress. It was the call for dinner. That was the only time Jaskier felt the rumble in his stomach even if he had no apetite to eat. He was sulking and wanted to be pety. Jaskier was considering holing up in the library and eat his dinner in peace but he had been ignoring the rest of Kaer Morhen for too long. He can’t possibly stay this way forever.

True enough, the servant who usually brought his dinner to the library did not arrive on time.

Jaskier sighed and rolled down his sleeves while walking towards where his lute was seated. He wasn’t in the mood to play a jig but it’s not like he had a choice. Even if Ciri herself considered him as a friend or even a family, Jaskier knew what he truly was. He’s a sacrifice, as Geralt has elegantly made him feel every time he ignored the bard.

* * *

The dinner hall was packed as usual. The smell of food and musk of hundreds of witchers permeated the air along with the loud sounds of yelling and laughter. The mood was pretty light and even some of the younger witchers had greeted Jaskier as the bard made his way through the hall. The elder ones, suspiciously, did not say a word though they haven’t ignored him completely. _Great_. More emotionally constipated old ballsacks to sour Jaskier’s day.

Thankfully, Geralt was already seated and looked like he was in a deep conversation with a rather stoic looking witcher. Jaskier’s instincts wanted him to make himself smaller to avoid attention, though what won out was the bard’s pride as he stepped towards the main table with a straight back, and head held high. Instantly, Ciri was pushing away Lambert who occupied Jaskier’s previous seat.

“Move!” Ciri insisted as she pushed the witcher with her full body weight. Her movements were jerky and hurried like she didn’t want her father to have a chance to protest. “Uncle Lambert, quick!”

Lambert rolled his eyes and pretended he was truly being shoved by a little girl. Nonetheless, the witcher did move and grabbed his plate and tankard with him. “Bossy little gremlin,” Lambert muttered good-naturedly.

Jaskier smiled apologetically before taking the seat vacated for him. It has been at least three days since Jaskier joined the witchers for lunch or dinner. It warmed the bard’s heart that little Ciri had missed him. He can’t say the same for her unfeeling father.

“Where have you gone to?” Ciri whispered furiously, leaning towards Jaskier as if Geralt’s enhanced hearing wouldn’t catch her talking.

Jaskier shrugged with a smile, “Just a lot of work to do in the library.”

Ciri gave him a sweet little stink eye as if she didn’t believe him yet didn’t want to offend him by saying anything. Jaskier answered her with a sheepish grin and was surprised to see that human food was purposely laid on the table. He took small cuts and portions of meat, cheese, and fruits. Ciri babbled comfortably next to him about the things the bard missed out on.

“Uncle Jaskier,” Ciri crooned in a tone that told she wanted something badly. Jaskier froze, his fork hanging in midair as he turned to his little host. “Could Uncle Jaskier play a song for me later?”

Jaskier smiled indulgingly. It was after all his job to entertain. Ciri made a delighted noise, cheek full of mashed potatoes and carrots. Some pety part of Jaskier wished desperately for his master to have the same bright and happy attitude as Ciri, though he was certain that would not blend swimmingly well with Geralt’s job as the literal God of Death.

By the time dinner came to a lull, Jaskier was feeling shaky with his chest rattling like it’s stuffed with cotton. It was an odd feeling he often attributed to nervousness or repressed anger. The bard cleared his throat, trying to shake off the foreign feeling. He promised to sing for Ciri. It didn’t matter if he did it in a room full of witchers who seemed to suddenly despise him.

Jaskier stood up from his seat and walked down the center. He didn’t know how his knees still haven’t buckled.

“For our sweet Lady Ciri,” Jaskier winked at the little girl who was excitedly vibrating in her seat. The bard failed to see how Ciri was discreetly tugging at her father’s sleeve to make him pay attention.

The dinner hall’s noise quieted down. Jaskier held up his lute in his hands, scanning the rather odd atmosphere in the crowd. Closing his eyes, the brunet bard rattled his head for a love song. Love songs always calmed him when his nerves seized his lungs. His lute’s soft sound drowned out the world around him. Jaskier was left standing, singing, and humming a tune that spoke of a gentle and soft love.

It was a rather depressing rendition of the original love song. Jaskier long ago played with it when he was heart broken and left out in the cold rain after his family threw him out. Some professional part of Jaskier knew it was a bad idea to sing such a sad song to a large crowd eating dinner but it felt right. His soul called for it.

When Jaskier opened his eyes, he was greeted by the sight of Ciri giving him watery puppy eyes and a trembling pout. Oh, that girl is too smart for her own good. It’s like she knows.

With an amused smirk, Jaskier expertly changed the ending of the song into a happier tune. It was on the spot but he managed to flawlessly string together words and melodies without tripping on himself. The atmosphere immediately felt lighter. They all distantly smelled the fresh scent of blooming flowers.

As the song came to an end Jaskier winced at a sudden pain.

He was bleeding.

Yet, he continued to play until the last notes. Geralt’s eyes widened as he pushed himself off his seat and made his way to stop the human bard from further harming himself.

The song ended and Jaskier was awarded by a thunderous applause.

It wasn’t as overwhelming as feeling the tight grip of Geralt’s fingers around his wrists.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Geralt growled. The witcher eyed Jaskier’s bloodied fingers like they personally offended him.

Jaskier pressed his lips together stubbornly. He still felt residual anger at this particular witcher. “I am playing the lute, my lord.”

“And bleeding all over yourself,” Geralt finished with a snarl. His amber eyes glowed. The witchers sat beside them suddenly cowered and trembled from something emanating from Geralt. Lambert and Eskel stood from where they were seated as well, ready to intervene should the need arise.

“Father, what’s happening?” Ciri asked with a furrowed brow. She was too small to see the entire commotion and Geralt’s back was covering much of Jaskier from the main table.

Jaskier tried to yank his wrist from Geralt’s grip but to no avail. He suddenly noticed that Geralt was trembling slightly.

“You—“ Jaskier breathed before Triss stepped in to herd the two away from the curious eyes of the crowd.

“Come,” Triss ordered as discreetly as she could, “Both of you. We need to leave, now.”

Jaskier was about to protest but he was pulled by the white haired god out of the dinner hall. The witchers they have all passed bowed their heads and averted eye contact, scrambling out of the way like they feared obstructing their lord and receiving his wrath. The bard’s blood dripped to the floors, making Geralt huff angry breaths.

What a confusing man.

Jaskier spent days wondering why Geralt wouldn’t even look at his general direction, now the god of death held on to him like Jaskier was going to disappear.

The dinner hall exploded into chaos after they left.

* * *

Jaskier was led to the apothecary just a little ways off Triss and Geralt’s separate rooms. The cluttered space was filled to the brim with dried herbs and paper wrapped medicines. Plants of all sorts of shapes and colors also grew inside, some of them squirming to life when they sensed the trio coming into the apothecary. Jaskier tried hard not to gawk at the obvious skeletons hanging from the corner.

The bard was seated at what looked like a bed, the springs making protesting noises at being used. Triss gracefully glided through several places of the large room, taking with her several pots and glass vials of potions together with a roll of bandages. Geralt was looming over Jaskier, eyes darting furiously like he’s tracking for any predators.

“Careless little lark,” Triss teased when she finally sat down in front of Jaskier. The sorceress gently took his bleeding hands and assessed the injury.

Triss huffed, “Geralt, if would please get us some clean water instead of hovering uselessly, that’d be great.”

Geralt blinked awake from whatever upset trance he was in and answered back with a weak grunt. The white haired witcher stomped his way towards a small inner well, sloshing a ceramic bowl clean before filling it with cold water.

“Did I—Did I cause offense?” Jaskier asked worriedly. Geralt’s actions were so strange to him that it’s making him nervous. Do witchers lose their senses in the face of human blood?

Triss smiled and gently shook her head, “I think he’s just having a hard time figuring out something for himself. Rest assured it is not your fault.”

Jaskier bit the inside of his cheek, not entirely convinced he hasn’t set everyone off. Thankfully, Geralt has returned with a bowl full of water in his hands. He took a seat right beside Triss, wordlessly taking the task of cleaning Jaskier’s hands of dried blood. The bard jolted at the tender touch. Triss smiled knowingly before looking away and mixing potions and salves for Jaskier’s cuts.

“You don’t have to do this,” Jaskier whispered softly as he watched Geralt carefully dislodged the dried blood clinging to his skin. The water had turned a murky color; its soft sloshing sounds the only thing that could be heard. Geralt remained quiet until he was satisfied with one hand.

“Be quiet,” Geralt answered though there is no bite in his voice. Jaskier scoffed disbelievingly but allowed the god to tend to him.

The three remained silent as Triss finished up putting salve and wrapping Jaskier’s hands with bandages. Geralt remained by the door the entire time, arms crossed defensively with his foot tapping impatiently on the cobblestone floor. Right beside the god was Jaskier’s bloodied lute. If the bard didn’t know any better, he’d think the white haired witcher was guarding his instrument like a determined hound.

_What a charming imagery if said god wasn’t such an arse._

“How did you even bleed that much, bard?” Triss asked good-naturedly as she patted the freshly bandaged hand. “I assumed musicians developed callouses over time.”

Jaskier chuckled. “Ah, that is true. I suppose I might have softened my hands as I was always cleaning the library. I was careless.”

Geralt made a noise at the statement, prompting Jaskier to glare at the witcher defiantly.

Triss sighed tiredly at the two. “Well, then I suggest you stop playing the lute for the meantime—“

“No!” Jaskier interrupted. He was slightly surprised by his sudden outburst as well but he was tired and a little defensive about the only thing that brought him comfort in this forsaken realm. “I’m fine. This is absolutely nothing, I— this is a normal type of pain—“

Geralt growled. “Why are you so fucking stubborn?”

Jaskier bristled from his seat while Triss looked warily at the two of them.

“I said I am fine!” Jaskier almost shouted back. “I think I’m in the proper position to know whether I am at my limit or not. Why do you even care?”

Triss straightened her back, eyes watching the plants in the apothecary quiver in time with Jaskier’s trembling limbs. The ferns were shaking hard while the vines of the ivy were growing and curling around the walls at a frightening speed.

“Jaskier, please calm—“

“You are acting like a child!” Geralt bellowed angrily.

Jaskier scoffed angrily, “Me!? A child!? Who’s the one who has been acting immaturely for the past few days? You bloody bullheaded witcher with the emotional capability of a spoon! Don’t even deny that you have been ignoring me like the plague without telling me what I did wrong!”

“I _wasn’t_ —“

“You were!” Jaskier yelled this time, vaguely hearing the sound of a glass breaking in between a Venus Flytrap’s mouth. “You absolutely were! If you hate the idea of having a filthy human in your midst, then you shouldn’t have accepted me as a sacrifice in the first place!”

Triss stumbled clumsily as the vast flora devoured the entire apothecary. Violets and peonies were crawling out of the floor while the aged walls started to crack and crumble underneath the ivies. Geralt broke eye contact with Jaskier, noticing the flowers for the first time.

“What the fuck are you?” Geralt growled this time, shielding Triss as the wild plants grew exponentially. Jaskier was trembling and didn’t seem to notice the growing forest behind him.

Triss held onto Geralt’s arm, “Stop provoking him.”

Jaskier pressed his lips together, fingers shaking as blood stained through his bandages and his inner shirt. The poor bard hiccuped as the feeling of fatigue suddenly overwhelmed him. He was dizzy and it felt like his insides were growing roots into the floor.

“What’s happening?” Jaskier mumbled to himself as his head swayed, vision blurring at the edges. His knees were starting to buckle and his muscles started to feel like melting butter. Everything was fading fast.

_The urge to throw up was strong._

Geralt immediately sensed that something was wrong. The flowers that grew viciously were now withering and shaking like the bard. The scent of life meeting death set the witcher on edge.

“Jaskier.” Geralt stepped forward with hands poised to catch the distressed human.

Jaskier looked up from where he was curled upon himself, cornflower blue eyes shining with unshed tears. A stream of blood poured from the corner of the bard’s mouth.

“Geralt,” Jaskier called softly before gravity pulled the bard’s body towards the floor.

The god of death stepped in quickly, catching Jaskier’s unconscious form and shaking him desperately awake. The scent of pollen and blood clung tightly to Jaskier’s skin. The bard was shaking terribly as fever overtook his mortal flesh. Geralt looked desperately at Triss for an explanation.

The sorceress placed her hand upon Jaskier’s fevered brow. She gasped at the warm glow of power running inside a supposedly human bard. Though, now is not the time to question his nature. Jaskier’s heart was beating too fast, temperature fluctuating at an abnormal speed.

Geralt looked terribly worried as he tightly clutched his human to his chest.

 _‘You fool,’_ Triss thought fondly to herself.

Triss wasted no time in creating a potion to stop the high fever. Geralt carried the bard back to the bed, murmuring incantations of his own to make sure that the human’s soul was still intact. A soft expression crossed Geralt’s face as Jaskier’s soul gently nudged back, warm and bright. Jaskier was not in danger anymore but seeing the normally loud and boisterous bard become so still and silent like a corpse...

...Geralt’s immortal heart suddenly felt a prickle of fear and guilt.

“Don’t make that face, Geralt,” Triss scolded gently before tipping back a viscous green fluid against Jaskier’s pale lips. “It wasn’t your fault—“

“It was.”

“Geralt—“

Geralt sat back heavily on a wicker chair. “I felt his soul. It was not malevolent.”

Triss nodded before casting a spell to stabilize Jaskier. “You could have just done that to him sooner. How many misunderstandings could have been avoided, hm?”

The white haired witcher looked displeased and chastised at the same time. “You know how intrusive and painful that spell is. It was my last resort.”

“I understand,” Triss hummed as she pursed her lips contemplatively. “What a strange little thing. From what we’ve gathered about him so far, he appears human but that— I don’t know how to explain it. The presence earlier felt so much like—“

“—Melitele.” Geralt finished for her.

“The goddess of harvest and fertility, a guardian of farmers and gardeners, a patroness of love and marriage,” Triss recited as she walked around the apothecary in a haze. “Did she ever have an offspring, Geralt?”

The god of death snorted, “I am not privy to the personal circumstances of others. I haven’t heard such a thing. Melitele keeps to herself and even rarely shows her true face to her followers.”

That is true. Melitele is an old goddess, almost as ancient as Geralt himself. She took three forms: a young maiden, a mother, and an old crone. The only physical things that remained consistent were her bright blue eyes and wavy dark brown hair.

_Striking features that Jaskier wore proudly._

Melitele loved hiding amongst the mortals, giving them aid and offering comfort wherever the goddess went. Life followed her every footstep, bringing with it love and joy. It would not be surprising if the goddess sired an heir among the humans.

Though, why would the poor child be left alone, with powers repressed up until the very tips of his hair?

Triss glanced at Jaskier’s prone form. The human bard did have the same features as Melitele along with perhaps her personality that practically spoke of life itself. Strangely, Jaskier’s body was weak against the endless power surging within him. If Jaskier wasn’t pushed to his limits emotionally and physically, Triss and Geralt would never have been able to guess that Jaskier was possibly an immortal demigod.

Still, the bard’s outburst was dangerous.

Whatever power lies within Jaskier was suppressed for a reason.

The bard’s human body barely held itself together earlier.

“He could have died,” Triss mumbled to herself.

Geralt caught the sentence anyway before turning away with a sour expression. He was distrustful of the bard, and often times found him annoying for talking too much but Geralt was no savage. Now that it was apparent that Jaskier seemed wholly unaware of his true nature, Geralt would not wish death upon him.

Ciri would be upset, Geralt convinced himself.

“Rest, Geralt.” Triss gently patted the witcher’s shoulder in sympathy. The idiot still didn’t know why he was rattled and she was sorely tempted to just shake some senses into him.

“I do not require sleep,” Geralt grunted stubbornly.

The sorceress rolled her eyes, used to such boar-headed answers. “Jaskier will not magically disappear, Geralt. He is safe with me. I’ll watch over him.”

The god of death sighed tiredly, eyes showing his true age.

“I helped in his deterioration,” Geralt started, clasping both hands tightly like he was deep in prayer. “Jaskier must have taken my distrust too hard. I pushed him even if he was innocent, so I owe him this much.”

Triss smiled indulgently.

“Take care of him then.”

Geralt nodded as the first signs of a new day broke through battered windows. The god of death remained seated like a stone sentinel, amber eyes memorizing and watching every breath Jaskier took; every rise of his chest that assured Geralt that he was alive.

Kaer Morhen stood in silent vigil with its master for three days until the first sprouts of the Star of Bethlehem emerged across the barren fields.

_“G-Geralt?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Star of Bethlehem means hope or reconciliation/atonement :)
> 
> Sorry for the late update. It's really getting hard to continue this fic since I practically fell out of the fandom months ago but I will try my best to finish this since all of you are being so supportive! I read each and every one of your comments and they really help me push forward! 
> 
> See you in the next chapter! Thank you for reading!  
> (If you see any errors, don't hesitate to tell me! I have no beta lmao)


	6. A Revelation

Jaskier woke up to the feeling of his head being split apart and stuffed with cotton and nails. He vaguely entertained the idea that he might have taken too much ale and wine, and all that happened to him was just a bad fever dream. Considering it now, the most logical thing was to truly consider those unfortunate events as the result of an overactive imagination.

_A deity of death named Geralt and his army of witchers?_

_His body heating up while his soul felt like it grew tendrils into the ground._

_Geralt’s worried face._

It all felt too surreal and faraway.

It was better this way, Jaskier thought. If meeting Geralt and getting shunned by him was all just a haze, the pain of rejection would be easier. Jaskier could forget as he always did, with the help of songs and an arm full of tankards filled with shit ale.

First, he must get up from whatever tavern he had stumbled into and hopefully not get chased by any offended husbands or fathers.

Jaskier blinked hard against the faint light, causing his head to pound harder against his skull. What the bloody hell did he drink to get this awful headache, anyway? The bard groaned pitifully as he tried to wiggle his fingers with great effort. His legs were asleep and forcing them to move caused several pinpricks of electricity running down his veins.

_‘Fuck. Everything hurts.’_

Maybe he should swear off drinking ever again.

Thankfully, after a few moments of struggling, his limbs finally obeyed Jaskier’s stubborn will. The weight of a wool blanket and the press of warm skin against his forearm suddenly made themselves known. Jaskier’s eyes cleared marginally, revealing a high wooden ceiling carved with tales of war and victory.

_‘Huh. Not a tavern then.’_

Jaskier blinked the sleep off his eyes before finally looking at the figure beside him. The man had a huge built, hunched over himself, with every inch of him covered in either leather or fur. His white hair was slipping from the leather tie against the back of his head, wayward strands of it falling across a handsome face.

A handsome face that looked younger and more vulnerable than Jaskier has ever seen him.

_‘Not a dream.’_

“G-Geralt?” Jaskier croaked, his mouth feeling like something crawled in there and died.

Geralt didn’t stir. The god remained in the clutches of his deep sleep, breaths coming and going in calming waves. Jaskier’s heart ached at the sight. Looking at him like this, one could be fooled that Geralt was someone reachable; a regular hunter you would encounter in a random tavern in Posada, equipped with his tales of mythical beasts and human tragedies.

In another life, Jaskier thought maybe they had a chance to be friends.

The notion made Jaskier frown deeply.

Geralt, no matter how fondly Jaskier thought of the White Wolf during his first few days in Kaer Morhen, had nothing but suspicion and distrust for him. Jaskier could not forget the days he went on wondering what kind of heinous sin he had committed for the god of death to dismiss Jaskier’s existence entirely.

It hurt because he thought life in the Underworld would give Jaskier a chance to live again.

It hurt because deep within his heart, Jaskier hoped desperately that someone would see his worth for the first time.

_‘What the fuck are you?’_

Geralt’s voice had been cold and sliced through Jaskier’s beating heart like a sharpened sword. The bard still didn’t understand what Geralt meant; why the god had been acting like Jaskier was some sort of threat. All he knew was the overwhelming feeling of burning anger and the cold grip of embarrassment and indignation for being treated so poorly.

_‘The feeling of his insides being torn apart, spit out, and then growing from the outside of his body’_

Jaskier sighed.

He watched distantly as his own hand rose from where it lay limp, hovering over the pale skin of Geralt’s face. Jaskier… he didn’t hate Geralt but he was very angry and disappointed with him.

A bandaged pinky finger lightly traced the bridge of Geralt’s nose and cheekbones. The god looked so soft and beautiful like this. Jaskier mourned the fact that his fondness was almost non-existent, replaced by the rattling cries of his growing resentment.

“You are a fool,” Jaskier grimaced before a cough rattled his chest.

Geralt immediately bolted awake, eyes glowing with frightening alertness. The god only calmed down when he noticed that the sound came from Jaskier. A breath of relief was accompanied by more coughing.

“Here,” Geralt muttered with a gruff voice as he pressed a warm cup of chamomile tea against Jaskier’s palms.

Jaskier blinked as he was hoisted to a comfortable sitting position, the witcher fussing over him with uncharacteristic gentleness. Honestly, this man was giving him a whiplash. _Was Jaskier dead? Is that why this Geralt was acting nicely to him?_

“T-Thank you,” Jaskier croaked pathetically. He didn’t want to be in the same room as Geralt right now. Jaskier’s senses were still scraped raw and the urge to kick Geralt’s teeth in was still overwhelming. The brunet did not want to know the consequence of assaulting a god so he reigned in the tide of his emotions.

“How are you feeling?”

Jaskier wanted to scoff so he concentrated hard on sipping his tea to avoid worsening the tension. The bard sighed at the feeling of chamomile soothing his throat. If he closed his eyes maybe he could pretend Geralt wasn’t there. Bad idea probably, his brain supplied him.

Jaskier merely shrugged, “I’ve no words.”

_‘No words to speak to you.’_

Geralt’s brow twitched but he remained seated in a submissive position. Some childish part of Jaskier was pleased that the witcher looked guilty; some part of him however bristled at the idea of being the exact same thing that Geralt was. He should be better than that, and yet Jaskier could not find the energy within himself to be the better man.

“I will get Triss,” Geralt excused himself, leaving Jaskier to his conflicting thoughts. The bard coughed and sneezed before he felt a velvety texture sticking to his tongue. Jaskier spat it out, only to find a small white petal in his palm. _Odd._

“And the bard lives,” Triss announced as she strode in the room with purple robes flying behind her. The sorceress had a bright grin on her face, a stark contrast to the perpetual frown that greeted Jaskier a few moments ago.

Jaskier inclined his head politely, “Hello, Triss.”

Merigold chuckled. “You have given us quite a scare, Jaskier. Were we not already in the apothecary, I fear you would have worsened your state. How are you feeling?”

The brunet bard smiled tightly, gripping his cup of tea with slight anxiousness. “I feel slightly better but I feel as if my body would dismantle itself if I tried to move.”

Triss nodded, clearly in deep thought. She explained that Jaskier’s body had tried to build a resistance to a _‘change’_ but subsequently overworked itself; hence, Triss had to manipulate his body’s reaction to be more accomodating to the growing power within him. It will take enormous amounts of time, patience, and practice before Jaskier could truly get a hold of himself.

Jaskier blinked. His foggy brain can’t comprehend the explanation just yet.

“I am not _dying_ , am I?”

Triss let out a merry laugh. “No! Quite the opposite, bard. You are growing.”

Jaskier blanked out.

“I apologize but I do believe you lost me there.”

The sorceress was about to open her mouth to explain when Jaskier let out a horrible cough that shook his entire body, causing tea to spill all over his wool blanket. The bard wheezed and hacked out puffs of air until a familiar velvety texture spilled all over his tongue. Even his skin felt itchy.

White and yellow petals rained on his lap.

“Oh gods,” Jaskier croaked as he leaned on Triss who was rubbing gentle circles on his back. “What is happening?”

Triss sighed. “I need you to calm down first. Getting upset makes it worse. If it’s too much of a feat, I will call Geralt—“

“No!” Jaskier screeched before coughing again.

Triss raised a brow at the violent reaction but nonetheless complied with the bard’s wishes. Privacy could be afforded to those suffering panic and a life-changing revelation. The sorceress patted his back comfortingly as Jaskier coughed out the discomfort in his lungs. Once he finally calmed down, the bard was offered a cup of water that bizarrely tasted like chocolate and plums.

“For the throat,” Triss began when she noticed Jaskier staring at her dubiously, “and also for the paranoia.”

“God knows I need that,” Jaskier supplied with a weak laugh. “I have foolishly thought that my life could not get any more deranged but alas, I am proven wrong. What is it this time?”

The short moment of silence felt heavy. Triss adjusted her seat, drumming her manicured nails against her clothed knee like a nervous mother. Jaskier was preparing himself for the worse, already imagining the goriest of scenes and the most ridiculous infections and diseases known to man. Did someone poison him? Surely not. Jaskier hasn’t been even in the Underworld long enough to earn an enemy.

“If I have to wait a minute longer, I will expire,” Jaskier groaned pitifully.

There was an amused laugh from the older woman beside him before he felt a gentle pat on his arm. “Never could turn down the intensity of your creative mind, isn’t that right? Truthfully, we are unsure of what is happening besides the fact that there will be… erm, changes in you now. Nothing dreadful, I assure you.”

“It’s a tumor then.”

“By the gods!” Triss laughed hard until she had to clutch her stomach from the pain. “No, dear! Nothing of the sort! You simply have some sort of power within you. It’s like… well, it is most likely that you’re not entirely mortal as you thought you were.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened as his mouth comically fell open, “Excuse me?”

“It’s hard to explain since we do not have much knowledge about the situation,” Triss said grimly as she adjusted her posture to a more proper one, “You must understand, this is unheard of.”

The bard laughed disbelievingly, hysterical tones increasing his pitch and making him look like he lost all his marbles; which, to be fair, is understandable. “I assure you besides my musical talents, there’s not much else about me. Powers? Wouldn’t Yennefer notice it in the first place?”

Triss shrugged. “Your powers were suppressed, bard. That’s the reason why your heart almost gave out when it broke through.”

Jaskier blinked once… twice. “I think I need a nap.”

The sorceress smiled amusedly and nodded. It was a lot to take in especially for a human who once believed that Chaos did not run through his veins. Jaskier slumped down to the bed, gracefulness completely thrown out the window. He picked on the stray petals clinging to his woolen blanket while Triss carefully placed his ruined tea on an empty wooden chair.

“Are there trees growing in me?” Jaskier muttered sleepily. His sense of awareness was quickly floating away as his body recognized its exhaustion once again. _‘I don’t want to grow roots,’_ Jaskier thought moodily. _That sounded very inconvenient._

“No, Jaskier.”

The bard snuffled once before his hands fell limply unto the side of the bed. Triss smiled gently and tucked away the stray hair covering his eyes. Looking at Jaskier like this, she could not believe they thought of him as a potential threat. He was obviously so young and a little vulnerable. Jaskier himself didn’t know how much he could do; how much he could be or already is. It awed Triss that this very boy muttering sweet nonsense was possibly the child of one of the most powerful deities the world has ever known.

Geralt’s life surely got interesting.

With dainty steps and a carefully crafted sleep spell, Triss left the apothecary and was met with a sullen-looking Geralt. He was looking at anywhere that is not the door to the apothecary but his body language was stiff and protective, his torso and feet pointed towards the room where Jaskier lay. Honestly, the sheer lack of emotional intelligence is staggering even for Triss.

“No need to look like you swallowed a lemon,” Triss teased.

Geralt made a displeased animal sound at the back of his throat.

“He’s fine,” Triss assured even if Geralt didn’t utter a word. She can read his hunched shoulders quite well. “Your bard just needs plenty of sleep to regain his strength. The herbs will help him.”

Geralt grunted. “We should really figure out what’s going on with him.”

“Agreed,” Triss sighed. “Maybe Yennefer could help? Tracing down his family roots could prove to be useful as well. Anything but directly getting answers from Jaskier. Besides the fact that he doesn’t know, he’ll be too weak to endure any spell cast on him now.”

Geralt knew that but the god of death also did not look forward to meeting Yennefer and giving her the news that her favorite bard almost got killed under his care. He really didn’t want another accidental burning of an entire acre of forest. That was such a pain to handle especially with nosey mortals present.

“Father!” Ciri’s voice called out as the young cub of Kaer Morhen toddled towards Geralt. The god uncrossed his arms, ready to question who let her come when the little gremlin slipped past him and tugged at Triss’ dress. “Is my Uncle Jaskier alright?”

Geralt… did not pout at being ignored by his own daughter. He really didn’t.

Triss bent down and told Ciri a rather simple version of what happened. Ciri didn’t seem pleased and gave her father the stink eye.

“It’s because you were so mean! I don’t get bedtime lullabies anymore.”

Geralt sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. She had a point. He just can’t believe that he has to hear this from a child.

Thankfully, Geralt was saved from an interrogation as Triss allowed Ciri to take a little peek at the sleeping bard. The god of death looked on, eaten by guilt and a little awed by how beautiful Jaskier looked under the soft rays of weak light seeping from gray skies. The brunet looked a little more alive, a little out of place, in the middle of muted colored walls and dried out herbs. Jaskier’s outburst made Geralt see the other a little differently.

There was so much he didn’t know.

Geralt’s life revolved around the sullen place that is the Underworld. He was a god who was doomed to be a recluse, cut off from the bright lights of life not by his own choice. The other gods thought of his work as filthy and below them. The humans feared him and what he represented; despised his existence and wished for his demise. The hatred turned the White Wolf into an outcast and Geralt gladly turned his back away from anything that had to do with the upstairs.

Then Jaskier, Julian Pankratz, a resident of the sun and growing earth came into his life…

…and yet Geralt still chose to turn his back on the reality that change will happen in his life.

_‘That maybe the god of death did not have to be so despised.’_

The White Wolf lowered his amber gaze as the waves of cold wind fluttered about. He took his daughter’s hand once she had her fill of ogling. They walked down the stony pathways of Kaer Morhen, surprised at the feeling that something was missing. Ciri commented on it softly to her father, missing teeth making her speech a little wobbly. Geralt smiled. Kaer Morhen was painfully silent save for the noises of movement and the trills of crows and magpies.

It was jarring to realize that they got so used to the soft singing of a faraway lute, that the absence of it feels like their world was titled off its axis.

Triss watched Geralt and Ciri disappear into the heart of the fortress. There was no need to follow them anymore at this point. The sorceress knew to herself that Geralt, although averse to showing emotion, had a heart that cared for those who are not at fault. The god of death will figure out a way to help Jaskier, she was sure of that. The White Wolf did tend to place blame on himself.

“A thousand good fortunes to you, Geralt,” Triss whispered fondly as she walked back to her room.

Looks like the sun will finally rise in the Underworld

* * *

Jaskier was not completely an idiot contrary to what his family and bloody Valdo Marx, _may he die in wretched death,_ says.

Every single time the bard sneezed, Jaskier would notice little buds sprouting from the spaces between the cobblestone floor. Truthfully, he got spooked the first few times it had happened, thinking that he was cursed or some horrid spirit was haunting him. Jaskier did not know of a ghost which grew _flowers_ of all things but the Underworld was an odd place; anything can happen!

The realization that it was him doing all the magic work was when he stepped foot on the floor and bloody— candytuft flowers wound around his ankles along with dots of marigolds. Jaskier absolutely screamed his lungs off, prompting two witchers to burst in with swords drawn.

“Uh,” Jaskier laughed nervously, unsure of how to explain to the witchers that he screamed at flowers. “There’s uhm… some wild growth that is going on here.”

The two witchers glanced at the bard’s ankle, looked at him dead in the eye with a disappointed expression, and closed the heavy wooden doors on him.

“Rude!” Jaskier blurted out. Were they not worried that plants, non-toxic and very normal ones, were suddenly springing out of nowhere!?

That’s when it sunk in.

_‘It’s like… well, it is most likely that you’re not entirely mortal as you thought you were.’_

Triss’ words rang loud and clear in his head like a church bell. Jaskier closed his eyes as the memory pounded into his head, building an ache that pressed down on his skull.

A pink colored rose appeared in his hand. Jaskier jumped away and tumbled unto his arse as he violently shook off the Eglantine rose. He didn’t even know the names of these flowers that well! Back in the university, Jaskier had a strange fascination over flowers and the whole love language associated with them. He studied hard but his focus shifted to music somewhere along those years. His memory of yellowing pages of multicolored blooms faded away with his age.

What was happening to him? Was Triss telling the truth that he wasn’t entirely human?

_Preposterous!_

But Jaskier can’t think of anything else to explain why he’s feeling like he grew out of his skin while flowers and plants popped out _everywhere_.

“Alright, calm down _Julek_ ,” Jaskier whispered his childhood nickname to himself as he took deep inhales. “You are going to be fine. You are not going to die!”

Jaskier kept repeating the mantra to himself as he stole the woolen blanket and wrapped it around himself, trailing pathetically on the ground as he marched barefooted to the door. The two witchers, who were apparently guarding him, tried to protest and put him back inside the apothecary when Jaskier, who was nursing a headache, lost his patience and raised his voice to argue.

Rhododendrons and thorn bushes hissed into life in warning.

The three figures blinked in surprise; both witchers covered with plants up to their waists.

“S-Sorry,” Jaskier apologized awkwardly before ducking down the halls and trailing bashful peonies after every footstep. He really needed to control whatever Chaos it was that was growing in him. Jaskier did not want to be buried in plants. He was too young to die in such an absurd manner.

“Fucking hell,” Lambert cursed when the witcher saw Jaskier’s form trying to sneakily pass through the side of the fortress’ lower bailey. “What is he doing?”

Eskel looked up momentarily from where he was sharpening his blade with a whetstone. “Probably going to get himself killed or kick Geralt’s ass.”

Lambert grimaced. “Yeah, sounds fair.”

* * *

Jaskier was pretty proud of himself for not getting lost, though perhaps credit is due to Kaer Morhen itself and its strangely sentient walls. The rusty gates opened by themselves, something that Jaskier was positively sure did not often happen to him before. Kaer Morhen’s winds blew softly until as it ushered the bard to a tiny ally.

“Uncle Jaskier!” Ciri screamed at the top of her lungs as she visibly vibrated with clenched fists. The walls shook a little. Jaskier hurried over, a little concerned that the foundations of the fortress might give if Ciri screamed again.

“Hello, little princess.”

Ciri curtsied, a grin on her face showing missing teeth. “What are you doing up from bed? Father will be very cross!”

Jaskier bit his lip as Ciri said it in a manner that spoke of how much she wanted to show off her new vocabulary. The cub even put her hands on her waists like a proper royal.

“Is he not always angry?”

Ciri wrinkled her nose daintily. “Father is really worried about you and that’s a different angry. He walks back and forth all day and does the ‘mean face’. Father is getting a little annoying. You have got to stop him! Please!”

Jaskier was a little taken aback as Ciri pulled on his blanket and gave him puppy dog eyes. “I doubt he’s worried. Is he even capable of that?”

Of course he is. Jaskier knows this deep in his heart. Never once in his life did he think of Geralt as a monster that the mortals thought him to be. It’s just that… he’s still raw and upset. His mouth spat bitter things in a weak attempt to get even.

“Of course he is!” Ciri insisted. “He’s even going to the mortal world to meet Auntie Yen because he’s _soooo_ worried about Uncle Jaskier! And father hates going up.”

 _‘Going back to the mortal world!?’_ Jaskier’s mind whirred. Is Geralt throwing him out? Is the White Wolf of Kaer Morhen planning to kill him? _No, that’s not— but what if…_

Jaskier’s frantic emotions spread fast, manifesting into more flowers and shaking leaves that caught Ciri’s attention. The cub managed to pluck one of the pretty flowers before being dragged by a scared Jaskier.  
  
Kaer Morhen groaned as the winds picked up.

* * *

“Sometimes, I want to physically smack some sense into you,” Jaskier heard Vesemir mutter though there was some fondness in his exasperation. They were a little ways off near Geralt’s room, facing more towards the south. Ciri described it as ‘father’s den’. The hallway stretched long and wide with its dark stones and high pillars wrapped in silver and black steel. The walls were decorated with paintings bursting to life every few minutes. Ciri told Jaskier about the funny painting of the sea which constantly flooded the hallway. The witcher had to hang it up outside, tired of having to constantly dry the floors when it acts up.

Now, the two small figures of Jaskier and Ciri were huddled by the entrance of a rather small room. The smell of ink and old pages wafted through the slightly open doors. Jaskier peeked inside and saw Vesemir with his usual pale white eyes, tracking Geralt’s pacing. The elder witcher was sat comfortably on a crowded desk, tapping his gloved fingers on its pristine wood.

Geralt sighed tiredly. “I doubt Yennefer knows this but she could at least help.”

“And you’re planning not to tell the bard about your little trip?” Vesemir smirked amusedly.

The White Wolf made a face. “He’s sick. I would not risk bringing him back and forth in the Underworld.”

Jaskier scooted closer to the opened door, a little entertained that Vesemir scrunched his eyes and looked at the ceiling for help.

“Geralt, you can’t keep him in the dark again. If the boy really is who you think he is, then Jaskier’s going to want to find out for himself too. Sneak behind his back again and I’m sure the damage to your relationship will be irreparable.”

“He’s not— he’s only—“

Vesemir blinked once. “A friend?”

The white-haired god sucked his teeth, a little defensive about his master’s teasing. Was Jaskier a friend? Perhaps. He had taken Jaskier as his own, their relationship starting as a master and an offering which was something Geralt disliked greatly. Ciri instantly adopted the bard as family. The witchers were mostly amused by a son of light bouncing with enthusiasm in a realm that reeks of death. Geralt—his emotions were complicated. He was fascinated by Jaskier and occasionally annoyed by his loud mouth but the boy was kind and unafraid of him. Jaskier looked like he wanted to be part of Kaer Morhen.

The loneliness in his heart aches.

Geralt didn’t know what to say so he grunted vaguely.

Jaskier frowned.

“Well, maybe you can tell your friend that there’s no use in spying in Kaer Morhen,” Vesemir declared easily as he smoothed his trousers, still playfully avoiding eye contact with the shocked bard. “There’s nothing wrong with knocking.”

Geralt twisted around, caught in surprise for the first time, as Jaskier poked his head inside the room with an unapologetic Ciri clutching his leg.

The smell of flowers that greeted Geralt was like a punch to the face.

“Uncle Vesemir is so mean,” Ciri commented with a pout. “We were _hiding_!”

“Which is not very polite,” Vesemir countered as he tapped the tip of his nose. Ciri’s cheeks puffed up more. She knew that sign. It meant she has done a bad thing that shouldn’t be repeated again. _‘Adults are boring!’_ Ciri thought to herself.

Jaskier, on the other hand, looked reprimanded. “I apologize. That was very rude of me.”

Vesemir waved a hand and beckoned the two to come inside. Geralt watched patiently with crossed arms. Jaskier shouldn’t be out of bed and seeing the bard wrapped in a blanket and walking around the fortress barefooted—the wolf inside Geralt just can’t accept it. His instincts were screaming at him to get the brunet to the nearest fireplace and just bury him in feather pillows.

It was an odd feeling which the White Wolf dutifully tried to ignore.

The keyword was _‘tried’_.

“What are you doing here, Jaskier?” Geralt asked in his signature gruff voice. The gentle way the god of death said it made Jaskier a little weak in the knees. The bard had to remind himself that he’s still upset with Geralt.

“I’ve been plagued with sneezing flowers of all things since three days ago,” Jaskier answered as he tried to look a little less like a lamb and more of an indignant cat in the face of two witchers. Ciri’s head bobbing to show her agreement was not helping him look dignified at all. “I want some answers, preferably not the ominous vague ones that Triss keeps telling me.”

Vesemir looked at Geralt expectantly.

“We’re still unsure…” Geralt sighed.

Jaskier pressed his lips together as he fiddled with his bandaged fingers. Geralt’s heart hurt at the sight.

“At the very least, please give me an idea,” Jaskier pleaded a little desperately, a touch of anger bleeding into his voice. “Vesemir is right. I can’t be kept in the dark. Whatever it is that’s happening to my being, I deserve to know. Geralt, you cannot keep ignoring me like this.”

The white-haired god stiffened.

“Perhaps, it is best to leave them to it,” Vesemir stated as he hopped down from the desk and urged Ciri to come with him. The little girl looked a little torn but one nod from her father softened Ciri’s resolve.

The seconds that passed long after the door creaked shut felt like a millennia for Geralt and Jaskier.

“Julian…” Geralt started with uncharacteristic gentleness. Jaskier’s breath hitched at the sound of his name spoken so carefully. “I was unfair to you and you have every right to be upset with me.”

Jaskier felt his mouth dry up. He didn’t expect Geralt to give him an apology that fast. The bard didn’t even have anything prepared to say. What a tragic thing for a troubadour.

“The flowers,” Geralt gestured at Jaskier’s form. “I think they are the manifestation of your powers.”

“How…” Jaskier mumbled. The White Wolf hated how vulnerable the brunet sounded. It looks like his perpetual wish for silence and peace stabbed Geralt in the back.

The god of death shook his head. “We really do not know, Jaskier. Our only theory is you’re possibly the son of the goddess Melitele.”

“Melitele!?” Jaskier squawked incredulously. “No, that’s impossible! Are you quite sure I’m not just cursed?”

Geralt shook his head again. Jaskier’s starting to hate the movement. “We’ve checked you. There’s nothing wrong, only different. The Chaos within you is not malevolent.”

Jaskier swallowed nervously. There are so many implications to what Geralt has said, so many lies spouted by his family. His mother, oh his sweet mother, did she lie to him too? How many people knew about his origin? How long was his wretched family planning to keep the truth from him?

Jaskier’s entire world, the life that he had lived and believed, felt like a mirror slowly breaking. It was difficult to process and the bard’s mind went blank as his legs gave out under him.

Geralt’s fast reflexes allowed the god to catch Jaskier just in time.

“Jaskier?”

“Oh, by the gods,” Jaskier sobbed brokenly. He was lost. What was happening? Surely, he’s just dreaming. Of course! It’s all a bad dream and he’ll wake up soon. It had to be. Jaskier just wants everything to go back to the way it was. He did not want to be anything else than a human!

“G-Geralt… I _can’t_ —“

The god of death remained quiet as he held Jaskier and placed a warm hand on the bard’s shaking back. Jaskier was angry; he could smell the copper and electric scent on the brunet’s skin. Geralt maintained kneeling steadily as Jaskier started breathing heavily. The white-haired witcher did not even flinch as roots grew from the ground, wrapping around Jaskier like it was offering comfort.

“This is not real,” Jaskier muttered repeatedly. His anger and confusion were mixing into an oppressive cloud of heavy Chaos. Geralt pulled the bard closer to his chest as Jaskier’s anger heightened. The witcher knew that most of it were directed towards him. Julian— he was hurt and raw. The wildflowers thrashed as vines barbed with hideous red and violet thorns grew and tore at Geralt’s clothes and skin. The plants drew blood as it crawled all over the little room they were in. Chaos screamed and wailed, shaking Kaer Morhen in its grief and misery.

Lies! Everything!

_Why was everyone pushing Jaskier away?_

“No, no, no…” Jaskier cried.

Geralt could do nothing but accept the pain. He deserved this.

It was the least he could do.

Jaskier was his, after all, and Geralt failed to protect his own.

He was regretful that he didn’t realize this sooner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower meanings:
> 
> White Daffodil: desire to be transformed  
> Candytuft flower: indifference  
> Marigold: pain and grief  
> Eglantine Rose: A wound to heal  
> Rhododendron: Warning, beware  
> Vervain (the wildflowers I didn't name): Pray for me, protection against evil
> 
> Thank you so much for supporting this fic even if I'm slow to update. It has really been challenging for me to continue writing this but I will try my best to finish it! I promise the next chapter would have happier tones since they're going on a family trip upstairs! 
> 
> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So I have this idea of Hades and Persephone au but with a little twist! Some ideas came from brucewaynv since she's been giving lots of prompts and it's a shame if they go to waste! (So thank you brucewaynv!!!) 
> 
> This is also just my second time to write in this fandom aside from the practice fic lol   
> Please be gentle and thank you so much for reading!!
> 
> Stay safe and healthy!


End file.
